We recently celebrated our second wedding anniversary and I have to admit, I am very happy to be married.

When I first started dating David, he was "that guy I'm seeing." It took me a long time to get used to calling him my boyfriend, at least out loud. It sounded so adolescent and I was closer to middle age.

Somehow, saying "My boyfriend said this" or "My boyfriend and I went there" did not support my self-image of a strong, independent, modern woman. So I kept quiet.

When I finally got used to calling him my boyfriend, he proposed. Then I had to play with the word fiance. It, too, did not roll comfortably off my tongue.

Fiance was much the same. Sweet perhaps, but so immature. Simple in meaning, it still connotes those fairytale expectations of romantic love while I was already knee-deep in good old-fashioned family life.

We got married on my 45th birthday, not a spring chicken. This is a second marriage for both of us. It's just more comfortable calling him my husband. That's where he belongs.

Neither of us is inclined toward romantic delusions. We are both realistic and do the hard work to keep this marriage strong. We have each brought a child to the table along with the respective responsibilities of our individual adult lives. Not a piece of cake.

We walked into this union with our eyes and hearts open, aware that our family requires serious attention and that life is not always a picnic.

That is not to say that our lives are completely void of romance. I look forward to seeing him each and every day and don't believe I will tire of his company anytime soon. We share the affection and love of an almost newlywed couple. It is just not tainted with juvenile expectations.

At a time when so many are faced with life's crises, I am thrilled and thankful to be at the beginning of something so new and quite lovely smack-dab in the middle of ever-mounting responsibilities and demands.

It's fun having a husband. The timing is good — as well as the title.