I won the husband lottery. Sorry, ladies.
The man I married seven years ago in that tiny chapel in the mountains of Virginia could not have been a more perfect mate for me. I mean, I definitely married up. Here’s why:
He’s a better parent than I am.
For the past four weeks as we have re-taught our bodies what it’s like to live on a newborn’s schedule, he’s been the primary one to wake up and tend to those newborn things (read: diaper changes, bottle warmer, boppy pillow gatherer, and breast pump piece washer.)
When I went back to work last week he stepped up in the cooking and housecleaning department. He handles preschool pick up and drop off, dance class and karate lessons, and even remembers to return library books. He reads books on the floor and will watch Frozen for the frillionth time just to make our three year old smile.
He’s a better partner than I am.
He takes care to check on my recovery, encouraging me to rest and to let my body heal. He brings me diet coke, at 4am, and whatever else I ask him to collect and he never once complains.
He insists on showing me love even when I don’t deserve it and fights for me when I want to give up and push him away. He loves the curves and soft lines leftover from the traces of pregnancy and childbirth. The history of loathing carved out by other’s lies and self-inflicted shame are slowly erased. He says my imperfections are beautiful, and in turn make me feel beautiful.
He’s always been there to prop me up when I’ve been unable to stand on my own. Being married to someone who has anxiety and depression is hard. But he never gives up on me, even when my brain can’t figure out why he won’t.
He’s given me a really good life. One I can’t imagine spending with anyone else.