David O'Mahony: It’s the little moments that remind you you’ve married the right one — not that I needed reminding 

'I’d do it again tomorrow. Hell, I probably will. That’s the glory of parenting, baby.' File picture

Time flies when you’re having fun. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And adopting (and mourning) cats. And becoming increasingly outnumbered and, at times, outmanoeuvred by children.

But still, you may ask yourself — well, how did I get here? Hard work, spouses actually liking one another, mutually chronic sleep deprivation, and always managing to dredge up or mangle song lyrics to weirdly match up with your life (you’re lucky I didn’t pick something from my black metal collection)? I’m certainly not complaining. I’d do it again tomorrow. Hell, I probably will. That’s the glory of parenting, baby.

Not that time gives a toss whether you’re having fun or not anyway. Like some steadfast elder deity, it watches life meander past and constantly forgets to set reminders on your phone, or to write down that absolutely essential thing that you need to do but have now completely forgotten.

Which is probably how, once, I found myself double booked to be in two countries on the same date, in the UK for something by myself as part of a longer trip, and in Dublin with my dad and son for a talk by Chris Hadfield. Not my finest hour, perhaps, but it was the rather more cool, calm, and collected Beloved Wife who defused my little anxiety bomb over the phone. My dad and son could just go together, which they subsequently did and had a great time (this is the son who, if you were reading last week, has since seen Interstellar and gone off to buy books on how black holes work).

But it’s those little trusting moments, which are reciprocal, that remind you you’ve married the right one. Not that I needed reminding. I could have told you she was the one well before we tied the knot, which we did 15 years ago on the Thursday just gone.

Like I said, time flies when you’re having fun.

Now, if I was something of a sap (this is where said wife gives me, the well-noted sap, a look with an arched eyebrow), I’d spend the rest of the column writing 15 tips for a successful marriage, or some such. Or put together a playlist summing up the past decade and a half — longer, when you factor in the time before we got married and that we’ve had three first dates (yes, really; Daughter would be scandalised). Let me just say that she and I would have wildly different playlists, mostly only crossing over with Green Day.

But to paraphrase Harrison Ford, this ain’t that kind of column, kid. Tips and advice are more a case where you send up the Dáithí Ó Sé signal into the night sky and wait for his column on a Monday (although the features team would prefer you to use email).

Rather, I’m dwelling on how small encounters can bloom into something greater, and how nerdy friendships (Shakespeare and early medieval art, anyone?) make for rock solid foundations.

After all, after repeated false starts and skirting around writing, it was Beloved Wife who a couple of years ago ultimately gave the quiet, gentle nudge of “how long would it take you to write a book?” I’ve now written five and am nearly finished a sixth, with at least two coming out in the latter part of this year.

Beloved Wife and I have been friends for more than half my lifetime. Quite what either of us — the earliest ones on campus in first year — would have said to you if you’d told us we’d get married and have three children is unknown. Confused laughter, probably.

Although not as confused a laugh as when the priest tried, more than once, to marry her to my best man because he kept mixing up our names. I could be writing here about the 15th anniversary of the one that got away instead of musing over how it really feels more like we’re just getting started.

Such things are possible when built on a friendship that’s endured from college through different cities, different countries, not having our own home for the first months of being married (builder got Nama’d), the endless stress of dealing with disability services for one of our kids, and how each of us can get manipulated by the cat into giving her milk, which in turn makes her throw up, usually on a patch of carpet or a rug.

Naturally, there are some things on which we are diametrically opposed. She insists on having apple tart or brownies warm, and it’s room temperature or cold for me. Similarly, she won’t touch coffee unless it’s in tiramisu, and half my blood volume is probably espresso.

Neither of us are for turning on these positions. But we make it work.

She also has a weakness for Scotland — looking at you Highlander and Outlander — and I, descended from farmers, sailors, and Swedes as I am, am not Scottish.

Occasionally our in-jokes will breach containment, though. A post where I referred to “my favourite wife” once prompted a colleague to approach me in the office and ask, with some trepidation, if that meant there was another wife somewhere.

There isn’t. Like in Highlander, there can be only one.