Happy Anniversary, Baby.

Dear Paul,

We first "met" - virtually anyway - seven years ago today in one exquisitely synchronised moment. Our union is forever linked to the Rolling Stones playing in our little local theatre (capacity 2000ish) which, as anyone who's known me as a teenager will understand, is to me magic in its purest form.

Over the next few months we became friends, lovers, then partners and co-parents when we took a big breath, held hands tight and leapt into the abyss of cohabitation with all six of our children. We created the Busch-Catt Family.

But mail still arrived at our house addressed to Mr and Mrs Busch, insurance paperwork and junk mail, mostly. Each delivery drove home the point that there was still a "Mrs Busch" and she was not me. (NB: There were a few girlfriends between me and Mrs Busch. You two just hadn't done the paperwork. But still.)

Now, I've got strong feelings about "Mrs". I don't want to be some Mister's anything. But the minute your divorce paperwork went through I was enveloped, overcome, indeed consumed by the desire to marry you. The word "wife" makes my skin crawl (except when it comes out of your mouth) but I wanted you to be my husband with the same relentless desire that I felt for each of my babies. I was alternately bemused and distressed by this urge, because suddenly my political values stood firmly in opposition to what were clearly my personal longings. Most of my friends were gay and I'd been a lesbian for a good hunk of my adult life. I hated myself for my desire and ability to grab the privilege of marriage and run with it, because it is a privelege that couldn't be enjoyed by the people dearest to me. I told people we had decided to get married because it was "good for the kids" - that they, in particular, would benefit from the stability this marriage would bring.

But you and I knew better. I bulldozed past your "it's just a piece of paper" nonchalance, convinced you that it was much, much more than that, and five years ago today we got married.

Why did I want it so bad? Where did this mutant streak of traditionalism come from?

Maybe it was adoption stuff; you know, always feeling like I was on the periphery of someone else's family. Or maybe it was a salve to heal the wounds sustained in my previous relationship. Whatevs. That's for me to work out with my therapist.

The truth is that I wanted as close to a guarantee as I could get that you would be by my side - and in my bed - forever. I wanted to swear to John Howard, our children and a God I don't believe in, that I would love you and honour you and worship you with my body until the day I died. I wanted us to be us, a unit bound by law and family and mortgage and cats and desire and all the things that act as glue when the going gets tough.

So. Five years on here we are, you and me. Two totally different people living together in one really loud, busy household that expands and contracts like an accordian.

I love you far more than I can write.

I love your weekend whiskers and your fliratious ways with waitresses and how your hands tremble when you're nervous even though your smile stays cool, so cool.

I love the timbre of your big Long Island voice on the phone and how you kiss my shoulder in the night when the mosquitos drive you from our bed in search of Aeroguard.

I love the pride and ease with which you talk about our wacky family and the certainty of your grasp when you throw me around a dancefloor.

I love how you'll dance with me all night long when I want you to.

And, baby, I want to dance with you for the rest of my life. Happy Anniversary.