This is my One Sappy Post, I Promise

I had this dream last night that Phil and I were planning our 5th anniversary party (must be because Greg and Julie are currently planning their 10th). This was one of my classic stress dreams because nothing was going right; no one showed up, none of the food ever arrived and we couldn't figure out what to wear. We did, however, have an inordinate amount of pictures of ourselves (as Phil and I do in real life, it's embarrassing, really) strewn about the room, so we cuddled together in an overstuffed chair and looked them over in total contentment. In my dream they were all real pictures that we'd taken on our first picnic together, our first trip to twin peaks, and pictures of us in New York.

Here's the thing:

When Phil's late home from work I get myself all worked up over whether or not he's been killed in a car accident and on most occasions I work myself into tears. I try to act cool and nonchalant when he unlocks the door, but inside I'm so relieved I almost pee my pants.

When I'm home sick I scavenge for one of Phil's shirts and I take it to bed and bury my face in it because it smells like him. His smell is so distinct to me that when I catch a whiff of a passerby who uses the same aftershave, he seems like a total fake and I'm angry at him for being a Phil imposter.

I used to constantly say that we were NOT HAVING CHILDREN and when I see a screaming child in a grocery store I still say it, but having spent 4 years getting to know Phil, I'm excited to have a child because I want someone on the planet to be blessed with a father like Phil. I'm even willing to go through labor (the scarriest word in the world to me) in order to make that happen--this is coming from a woman who has pre-pardom depression.

In short:

To say that I'm in love with him seems faint and silly when compared to these things. Love is less and less a sufficient word, and more and more something we say around my house.