I write about Thor frequently, and I think I’m fairly clear that he is the light of my world, and the best thing that has ever happened to me. I had a great life before he came along, but from the moment I heard his first cry–well, it was like going from an oil lamp to a room full of 200 watt lightbulbs. That’s easy to shout from the rooftops, and I am unashamedly his biggest fan.
I write about my mom and my best friends, and I have no problem telling you that I love them all as extensions of myself. They are always on my mind, and I feel very deeply for them.
When it comes to love, I don’t write so much about my husband. Why? I was thinking about that while having a conversation with a friend today. I really don’t like admitting how much in love with him I am. Isn’t that silly? I am happy to tell you that I love my husband. I am happy to tell you how content I am within our relationship. I do not like letting on just how much he means to me. I do not like letting on that I would be lost without him.
I am not a gooey romantic. I’m not a pet name calling, shmoopy, swooning bride. I would just as soon punch B in the arm in public as kiss him. Maybe I would rather punch him in the arm. Kissing is too vulnerable. Letting on how much I love him is too vulnerable.
At my most naked, you will find Bryan because with Bryan is where I want to be–where I choose to be. My choice in him as a partner, my choice in him as a co-parent, my choice in him as my future tells you more about Lane than anything else in the world could. I am, and I say this with full understanding of what the words mean, embarrassed, even a little humiliated at how deeply I desire his validation, and at how much I want his approval. I really don’t care what anyone else in the world thinks–I want to be liked, but I can take or leave anyone except him. I care what he thinks of me.
Both of us being human, we aren’t perfect by any means, but I trust B absolutely. And there’s where I feel the most vulnerable, and maybe even naive given my family history, but I can’t help myself. I trust B like I love him, and that is without limits.
I like for you to think that I am practical and realistic, like a well sifted, exact cup of baking flour. The reality is that when it comes to my feelings for my husband, I am a heaping, lumpy, lovesick mess. I’ve decided that’s all right. Sloppy suits me.