Love. Davidson Style.

It’s my wedding anniversary today. Nine years married, fourteen together with the handsome and gracious Stewart “Stav” Davidson. That’s how we say it when asked -“fourteen together, nine married” – we think the first five years count as much as the ones we spent wearing each other’s rings.

He’s awesome. Actually properly awe inspiring. Funny, sweet, charming, crazy smart and loving. He loves Rori and I with a purity and a selflessness that only the best humans are capable of, and grants Rori the best possible gift a father can give his daughter  -an example of the type of man worthy of her love if she chooses men when she’s much much older and ready to make that call. Much older.

When we met, he was 22 and I was 23. I had just come back from Canada with a broken heart, some nasty emotional scars and a firm intention to stay the hell away from men for the foreseeable future.  He had just sworn a vow of chastity. But he walked into a party at 123 Jubilee and I was lost. He was, I think, mildly alarmed by the six foot tall, long black coat clad goth who turned her kohl lined eyes to him. Alarmed. But blessedly intrigued.

Neither of us were keen on marriage. And yet we knew, after three or so years together, that we wanted to be married. Our then six year old cat Melora was proudly represented on the wedding cake sitting sagely at our feet, and still resides in all of the warm places we’d like to sit in our house. We didn’t want kids either, but Rori called to us from the ethereal baby waiting room with all her might, and we were helpless to resist. Turns out she’s that sure about everything she wants. And as unafraid to make her wishes known.

My brother Chris read a poem at our wedding that said you choose your partner, and keep choosing them every day. Something about remembering that you love them even when you’re angry and that you’re in this together. I can’t remember anything else about the poem, but I do remember Stav’s vows that day mentioned alien invasion and said I was the Scully to his Mulder, the Marge to his Homer. I said he was my safe place. Now he’s Rori’s too. Us Davidson girls have done well there.

 

 

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