Loving Husband. Loving Beer.

Fifteen years ago today, Husband and I got hitched.

I'd marry him again and again. Who else would have put up with me?

We went out for dinner, en famille, and then, like any good Canadian adults, we hit the Beer Store. Daughter was iPodding us out, singing aloud to Avril Lavigne (she's learning "Losing Grip" on her violin), but Middle Child desperately wanted to follow Husband into the store.

"Where's he going?" Baby Boy asked. "I want to be with Daddy, too!"

Granted, one of my fondest childhood memories is going to the Beer Store with my dad. Sad, eh? Maybe it's the cardboard and yeast smell. Maybe it's the muffled order the clerk barks into the mike, one octave lower than his or her normal talking voice. Maybe it's the chuffffff of the fresh new case of beer bolting out of the hole in the wall making a "ching, ching, ching" sound as the case rolls down the wheeled chute.

But Husband isn't my dad. When he goes to the Beer Store, it's labourious. There's waaaay too many choices for him and what took my dad two seconds (it was 50 in the '70s, Blue in the '80s, the cheapest beer available in the '90s, and now it's whatever my sisters and our husbands want), it takes Husband approximately 4 minutes. Add TWO kids into the mix and the choice is even harder to make for him.

So I did my best to keep Baby Boy in his car seat. And he cried. And cried.

Husband came back and took him out. Baby Boy smiled brightly, dried his tears and walked ahead of Husband with such purpose.

Husband said he took one big sniff and sighed, "I love beer," took his hand and walked out.