She sweeps, mops, washes, cooks, wipes runny noses, dries tears, runs errands, finds backpacks, mittens, and hats. She schedules the family schedule, organizes, and does the picking up and dropping off. She works, listens, and mediates, and does so much more than all that.
Life comes at her from all directions, but she is patient and smiles and any suffering and misery she feels is usually dealt with quietly, on her own. She never asked for this, never knew it was going to be this way—a middle class life abuzz with activity and ups and downs, spending 7 am to 9 pm in a whirlwind every day—but she is thankful and grounded and reminds our kids and me—her oafish husband—that happiness is within, not in the world around us. We need to stay positive, help others, and do the best we can.
My wife is a beautiful person.
I forget to tell her that sometimes.
She is filled with joy and sadness and anger and laughter and fear and hope and dreams and for some reason or another, she has chosen to spend her time—the days of her life—with me.
She isn’t always right. She’s not perfect. But she’s the one, and every day some way or another—the bounce of her curls, her touch of her lips, the way she treats others, and how she holds her coffee cup—makes me realize life is good. We fit. And we share something others don’t have. That’s the beauty of being married—knowing you’ve got a partner, that you’re a team, and that anything is possible because you’re working together to make sure that every day has the undeniable potential of being better than the last.
Good morning, sweet S.B. Thanks for fighting the good fight with me.