It isn’t his birthday. Or our anniversay. Or father’s day.
It doesn’t need to be.
This is my husband.
I’ve loved him for 17 years. Yes, that long.
I still fancy him. Quite a bit. We stay up late talking. And even though he doesn’t love how birth affects our family, he listens to me talk about birth story after birth story and serving families. He hears me rant about hospitals and OBs. He offers insights and keeps me grounded when I
panic worry. He can talk ruptured membranes/intermittant monitoring/mucus plug/nipple stimulation with the best of them because he knows it is important to me. He’ll make a flyer for my events or pick out the perfect doula gear.
He has this look. Oh this look that he gives me when the day has been particularly challenging and the girls have wrecked the house. The look says “we’re going to make it and we’re going to do it together.” And I can take another deep breath as he grabs a guitar to sing with the girls or puts on Mr. Roboto for a dance session.
When I make a mistake (which is often), he is so easy. So quick to forgive. So quick to move on. So quick to laugh. He’s slowly teaching me to fight with him instead of sulk. I’m a slow learner.
He likes to pick out my clothes and take me shopping. I would be much dorkier if I didn’t have him in my closet. He is way cooler than I am. Sometimes when I am completely lost under a pile of rejected clothes, he’ll drop everything to be my fashion advisor. He also explains jokes and slang to me.
He’s handy. A fixer of things–both tangible and intangible. Norah once said, “Daddies fix things. Mommies don’t fix things. Well, they fix dinner.” I’ve since educated her on that point. However, her daddy is a first-rate fixer.
Finally, and this one is tough to swallow, I think he might be better at this parenting gig than me.
So, in honor of no special occasion, I want to say thanks to my love.