Unsung Hero

I know, I know, there are a bazillion "Thankful" blog entries floating around the blogosphere. In that respect, this post will not be unique, so if you've had your fill of the ubiquitous gratitude thing, feel free to skip this post. And, if you're not feeling very charitable toward your Husband or Significant Other right now, you may want to skip it as well.

Because I am about to gush about my husband.

Sometimes I still marvel that he is my life partner. Because prior to meeting him, there were two serious relationships that could have resulted in marriage, but which, I am certain, would have ended in homicide extreme remorse and deep, abiding bitterness had we actually made it to the alter. The fact that I had the presence of mind to extricate myself from these doomed relationships only to stumble upon husband literally, weeks thereafter, still amazes me, as does the fact that I didn't actually strike him dead with my patented stare of malevolence when he asked me for my phone number. Karma is a funny thing.

Aside from a couple posts that I wrote; one on our anniversary, and one about how we met and married, I don't talk about him much except in passing. I don't post about him when he have argued, and I don't post about how he loads the dishwasher incorrectly and leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor. It's a small demonstration of my respect for him, but it's also because I feel that to do so diminishes all the ways in which he is a truly fabulous person with whom to share a life.

He isn't perfect. He really does load the dishwasher all wrong and sometimes, he really does leave his underwear on the bathroom floor. But so do I. There are other things that we bicker about of course. There's a lot that goes into raising a family and building a life together, and we don't always see eye to eye. But these minor annoyance are really and truly trifling when I consider everything that he has given me and our children.

When I was 8 weeks pregnant with Pre-Pubescent One, I lost my job in a really disheartening turn of events. Our decision to start our family had been based on the security of two incomes, so understandably, during my pregnancy, husband counted the days until I could go back to work. He was worried and I think, somewhat overwhelmed at the thought of being the sole provider for me and the baby.

When PPO was born, I realized that I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave him. So I fearfully and tearfully told Husband that I wasn't going back to work. He was angry, at first, but his anger was grounded in fear. After some thought, he came to me and told me that whatever I thought was best for our baby was the right thing to do, and he would support me one hundred percent. From then on, he has made it his mission to accomodate my need to be at home with our children.

And yet...when I expressed to him that I was feeling lost, and unfulfilled and depressed because I had no identity outside of motherhood and because all I had to look forward to each day was more drudgework, he again offered his unconditional support. Whatever I wanted and needed to do was not only okay with him, he would do everything in his power to make sure I achieved the sense of purpose that I needed. And he has. He has been far more optimistic about my ability to become a published author than I and has never wavered in his belief, even when my confidence has faltered. Even when I have dismissed the idea completely, he refuses to give up on me.

He works long hard hours, and very rarely reaps any personal benefit from it. Sometimes I feel that all the poor guy does is hand over his heard earned money to three outstretched hands. One needs braces, one needs counselling, one needs eye surgery. But he does it, and doesn't complain. Even if it means he doesn't get a new car this year as we had tentatively planned. Even if it means that boat he has been dreaming about is one year farther away from being a reality. He provides for our wants and our needs with unquestioning and unselfish devotion. That's the kind of husband that he is.

The kind of Father that he is, is the kind who will leave the house at 5:30 am so that he can put in his eight hours and leave on time to coach little league baseball. Often going straight from work to the ballpark, with no dinner, and no downtime. He is the kind of Father that will come with me to meet the Psychologist, the ENT, or the Teacher. He is the kind of father that never misses plays and performances. He is the kind of father who is a kid at heart and who never hesitates to be silly. And he is the kind of father who knows to suggest an outing or an adventure when Mommy is at her breaking point or to enforce a strict code of silence when Mommy has a migraine.

My husband is not a saint, but he is a truly kind, generous and loving person. And I feel incredibly thankful that I somehow stumbled into his lifepath. He is my best friend.

Sometimes, I wonder what he gets from everything that he gives us. It certainly isn't plentiful sex or a spotless home or meek and slavish devotion. Instead he gets to share his life with cute, but ungrateful children and a headstrong, opinionated wife; both of whom bleed him dry.

Maybe he is s saint afterall.


Edited to Add: I forgot to include the not insignificant fact that he finances my book habit (it's pretty hardcore) and puts up with cats (we have three) because I love them, despite the fact that he is allergic. He watches chick flicks without complaint. And, he is an incredible gift giver. One year for my birthday, he stood in line for hours and hours to get a signed copy of my favorite (at the time) author's newest book. Also, he gave generously of his DNA even though I'm pretty sure the kid thing wasn't high on his list of priorities at 25.