My husband is a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but he is many things that I am not and he completes me in some very specific ways. How do I love him? Let me count the ways…
I have a temper. I am rash, emotional and impulsive. Pick your chin up off the floor, it’s shocking, I know. For the past 14 yrs my husband has been the water to my fire, his job (and he does it with aplomb) is to diffuse me and render me incapable of exploding. There are munitions personnel in Iraq who have likely had easier jobs with IED’s than he has had with me over the years. He is skilled at making it easy for me to back down. He nibbles my chin, he playfully calls me “Wackadoo” (only he can do this…don’t you try it), he finds a way to make me laugh and he shakes my sillies out. Sorry, I don’t do calm.
I’m a bit of a slob. I take my shoes off around the house. In our mudroom there is a pile of shoes he refers to as our “back up security system.” He calls it that because anyone trying to break in through that part of the house would break their neck on the pile of shoes there. I kick my shoes off in the kitchen, the family room, under tables – anywhere really. He comes home at night, follows the trail of shoes and collects them. He finds them a home and our life goes on as scheduled. Sorry, I don’t do neat.
I am nauseated by many things. Vomit occupies a top spot on the list. We have 4 cats and 2 children, so vomit is a way of life in our house. From hairballs to stomach viruses to simple acts of overindulgence, it is a near daily occurrence in our home to find vomit on the floor. The sight of it activates my gag reflex. If a cat throws up, I cover it with a paper towel and when he gets home, he dispatches the offensive pile. If a child vomits, it’s worse. I have called him home from work to clean up a floor full of regurgitation. In the past month or so, each child has graced us with a “technicolor yawn” strewn about the floors of our home. He faithfully goes about the task of cleaning and sanitizing and never complains. Sorry, I don’t do vomit.
I get wrapped up in the drama of it all. I regularly trick myself into believing that the sky really is falling. Far too often I am the Princess and the Pea. I believe the grain of sand in my shoe is a boulder. He reminds me of what’s really important and of how incredibly lucky we are to have each other and two beautiful, healthy children. He’s like a bungee cord that suddenly snaps me back from the free fall. Sorry, I don’t do perspective.
Not to make it seem as if he doesn’t have shortcomings himself. Life is an intricate balance of give and take. There is that which he doesn’t do, and I fill in those gaps for him. It’s the dance we do, and even on the days when it’s more like a mosh pit than a ballroom, we still manage just fine.