Eight years ago this very minute, I was on the balcony level of a shoe factory-turned-art gallery, dancing my fool head off to the best of late '80's alternative, with a shiny new ring on my left hand and my new husband off in search off some more champagne. I was still embarrassed over crying at my wedding (helloooo??? I was exhausted! I cry when I'm tired and stressed!) But I was having a blast at our reception, with people I hadn't seen in years mixed together with my family and my best friends. I can't think of another time in my life that would ever be cause for that same group of people to gather again.

What I didn't know, as I twirled out of my slip again, was that my family,through death, dementia, pride and divorce, would fall apart.
I didn't know that I'd be the mother to three boys, much less a set of twins. I didn't know the depths of postpartum depression or the relief of asking for help. I didn't know that you could love a child with an intensity so fierce that it must be primal. I didn't know I needed so much sleep, or that I could function without it. I didn't know how to cook. I never imagined I'd live in another country. And if I were to imagine it, I never would have guessed that country would be Canada.

I didn't know that if I really let my guard down to someone, and let him see how ugly and ridiculous I can really be, that he'd still be there to tell me I'm beautiful. I never imagined that I could matter so much to someone that wasn't blood-related, and that he could matter that much to me. I didn't know that as bumpy as these past eight years could be, that he could still support me without judgement and even make me laugh.

All I knew, as I looked out over the crush of people to him, raising a glass to me, was that I was happy and buzzed and sweaty and thrilled to be dancing with everyone I loved on our wedding day. And that's as good of a way as any to start a marriage.