Unconditional

"I would attempt to capture

…what it feels like to be loved unconditionally...

…what it is to know true contentment."

~Nichole @ In These Small Moments

As a child, unconditional love was my father's smile when he hugged and kissed me good night; the smell of my mother's perfume in the morning; my grandmother's vegatable garden in her backyard; waking up to find my little brother's thin warm body next to mine in bed, surrounded by all of his stuffed animals. 

As a teen, unconditional love was sneaking out of my house to soothe my boyfriend after his father abused him; Friday night football games in the stands, cheering for my best friend; the smell of my secret crush's cologne and the twinkle in his eye as he called me "Dan"; lying on my driveway staring up at the stars, wishing for my future; a single kiss on a playground; a hand on the small of my back as I cried. 

As a wife, unconditional love was home-cooked meals and lying on the couch all day Sunday watching TV under a blanket; compromises; forgiving despite the dread in the pit of my stomach; giving me courage when I didn't want it. 

As a mother, unconditional love is "You are the best mom ever"; waking to her hand reaching for one of mine in her sleep; kisses on the forehead; sweet concern behind her frown as she asks if I am okay when she sees tears in my eyes; full-on belly laughs to the point of losing our breath. 

As a social worker, unconditional love is a guiding hand, comforting words, and helping even though it hurts yourself to the point of tears and fatigue.

Unconditional love is ever-changing, growing and evolving, gaining strength and stature as the years go on. I am overwhelmed by the amount of love I have for my daughter, for the love I feel from a handful of friends that seem to know the exact time to reach out to me, for the surprise of true love in my boyfriend's eyes. 

After the debacle of my separation and divorce, I was unsure of the definition of unconditional love. I had been trained by my ex husband to believe that all love had conditions, that surely I didn't deserve it unless I earned it, by his rules & standards. That it had an expiration date. I watched that love grow hard and then brittle and eventually disappear. And I let others tell me what unconditional love was. Their take on it, their twisted and sad way of justifying the lack of it in their lives. 

I would be lying if I said that unconditional love was pain free. It sucks that this isn't the truth. Oh damn, how it hurts sometimes. Enough to bring me to my knees. It can be sharp and blunt, fierce and timid, brutal and lenient, comforting and lonely. And bad love doesn't always ruin good love, later. Not unless you let it. But then: it lifts me back up, comforts me, and carries me on. 

I am still learning, still experiencing. I feel the ebb and flow of it in my life, rocking me through both the good times and the bad. I still have fear, but I still have faith. I still play it safe, but I continue to take risks. I am fluid and solid, with the love I find, and the love that finds me. 

*This post was inspired by this post by Nichole over at In these Small Moments. The quote at the top is directly from her post. I've had these words locked up inside, not knowing they existed until that sentence unlocked something.*

Unspoken wishes

Entering the stairwell, I make my way up to the 3rd floor of the parking garage. Eyes down, taking in the smell of damp cement (which reminds me of my grandmother's cellar), I see the sheen of copper-it is upside down. For a brief second, I want to pick it up, and then decide-No, I don't need any more bad luck-and I turn it over, for someone else: an untouched good luck wish from a correct-side-up penny. I make my way to my truck in the garage, thinking of my unwished,unspoken wishes.
*****
I wish I wasn't alone. 
I wish it wasn't so hard to trust.
I wish I wasn't unsure and unsteady in love.
I wish for that romantic-comedy movie love story.
I wish he would touch me-light, fleeting, persistent, insistent-all at once.
I wish someone would ache for me.
I wish I would see things reflected in his eyes, in spite of our fear, our pasts, our unbeaten paths. 
I wish he would sweep me off my feet. 
I wish we could heal together. 
I wish for a day of lazy closeness- body heat, skin, and looks the only things between us. 
I wish for a late night of endless conversation, rambling and incoherent, full of laughs and grand, knowing grins in the dark.
I wish for this feeling of "It feels good knowing you are thinking of me" to never end. 
I wish for shared dreams, new dreams, hopeful wishes, and healed hearts.
I wish for the feeling of giddy silliness with him, that feeling I've only had with my girl the last two years. 
I wish he were wishing about me, thinking about me, dreaming of me, waking up in the middle of the night to look at the alarm clock, counting down the hours until he sees me again.
I wish he would hold me as gently and as close to his chest as he does the tattered image of her. 
******
When I get to work, I park on the street. Just as I reach the sidewalk, a flash of copper catches my eye-an upturned penny, perfectly balanced on the edge of the curb. 
I pick it up. 

The Planets Bend Between Us

My sister went through this period recently where for about a month, she watched the movie The Notebook every damn day. I'm still questioning her teenage sanity level. Every day I would walk into the living room and get pulled into the story: standing frozen, mid-step, or slowly sinking onto the edge of a chair. I would last all of 10 minutes, tops. Then I would begin to feel this heavy feeling take over my entire body, starting in the core of my chest, spreading outward. Then I would realize what I was getting myself into, and I would bolt out of the room, cursing myself, the movie, and my sister. 
I have read the book. It made me cry. 
And I love sad love stories. 
Or I did. 
Now I just want to avoid them and the whirlwind of emotion that comes along with them. I want to climb into bed, pull my comfy blanket over my head, and curl up in a tight, shatter-proof ball. 


I started The Time Traveler's Wife a year or so ago. I got so busy with grad school that I didn't finish it. I fully intended to so that I could watch the movie (looks fantastic), but now? Now I don't think I can. 


I bought the movie PS I love you for myself. I can't even open the damn DVD box. 


I saw The Descendants a couple of months ago. I was not aware of what it was about, apparently. But as soon as the main character found out his wife had been cheating on him, that heavy feeling  started in my chest. All the emotions I had felt when my ex said he wanted a divorce? All back, stretching out with cold fingers to fill my body. It gave me little comfort to know that obviously others have felt all that I have felt the last 2 years, or at least similar things. I sat paused, barely breathing, during the entire movie. And I was silent for a good 2 hours after the movie was done.


Saw Crazy Stupid Love soon after. What the hell was I thinking? Another movie where I sat frozen, the only movement my tears sliding down my face, lying to rest on my collarbone. 

It's taken all this time for me to figure out that what I want so desperately is also what scares the shit out of me. One in the same. I am both drawn and repelled, a magnet with polar ends, constantly spinning out of control when pushed too closely towards the right field. 


I listen to music to calm myself. I read. I write. I tell myself over and over until I am hoarse, that it will be okay, go slow, leave the past behind, smile, breathe. 


Breathe.


Sometimes I feel as though I am the only one dizzy with the spinning.

Music Lover Monday-On Friday

I am pretty sure I would go anywhere with him. <3

*This* is what I'm looking for

Just sayin.

If you are looking for my sweet side today, you will need to just go look in my archives. Just go over there ----------->.
I am just DONE. Like, DONE. I'm over the stress, over the bullshit, over the LIVING LIFE ON HOLD.  I'm done putting myself out there.
It's easy to get prettied up and go out. Easy to smile, laugh, chit-chat about meaningless things. (Fairly) easy to allow a man to buy me a drink. (Fairly) easy to do a little bit of flirty touching on his arm. But from that point on, it gets hard. And that's the shit I'm done with. Because it never ends well. It ends one of two ways: either he gets hurt, or I do.
Take this past weekend:

I'm somewhere with a bunch of people I don't know, and a few I have hung out with a couple of times. Apparently it is a known thing with this group that I am single, and these stupid men think it's funny to make it a game. So three men are wanting to buy me drinks. Yes, yes, I know someone is saying "Holy shit! Why are you complaining about that??" to which I respond: BAH. Because honestly, I can't help but have this internal conversation with myself:

"Man #1 is a total player. Hot, but omg, how the hell could I ever trust a man like that??"

"You do not need to trust him, dumbass. Just have fun!"

"Oh, ha. We are talking about ME here. I DO need to trust him. I'm not here just to have drinks and play. Ultimately, I want something long-term. I am NOT the player type. You know this."

"Oh, and Man #2 is f-ing annoying. Not attractive. Why are you so nice? Get some damn balls and stand up for yourself."

"Dude. Shut it. Man #3...."

"Um, no. Just, no. THAT MAN is the heartbreaker.Run."

I exhaust myself.

Anyway, so Man #2 will NOT take no for an answer when I say he does not need to buy me drinks. And he's a smoker, so as the night continues, he's leaning into my face and I just can't handle it. At the end of the night, he's trying to kiss my neck and tells me that if I'm interested I should meet him outside the bar. Um, NO. (I'm getting the chills just typing this. Ick ick ick!!!)

So why the fuck should I bother at all with Man #2? I mean, he probably expects something after buying me drinks, and I'm a nice woman, so I talked to him, but there was NO SPARK there AT ALL for me.

Man #1 dances his ass off, playfully flirts, but I already shut him down last time we were out. I don't want the man who knows he is hot shit, and hits on every gorgeous woman he meets. Would he be fun to play with?? Oh yes, I'm sure of it. The way he moves on the dance floor....mmmm. ANYWAY.

It's Man #3 that had me in tears driving home. Motherfucker. He's the one I want to run to and away from. Haven't known him long, but we seemed to be on the same page about so many things. Went on a few dates. Awesome conversations, drunk and sober. A shit-ton of similar interests. And then he smacks me in the face after 4 dates with a motherfucking text (DUDE) that he isn't ready for anything serious and thinks I'm nice and a great person (Fuck you) and JUST WANTS TO BE FRIENDS. To which I say: BAH.

Because see, that would be totally fine if not for:

- We had the 'serious' conversation. We both allegedly felt the same:Not looking for serious but don't want to play, need a healthy balance; and don't need to waste time on people who really wouldn't be right in the long-run.

-It was HE who asked ME out on the 4 dates. It was HE who made comments about doing things together this summer. It was HE who approached me.

-And lastly, if he really wanted to be friends, the above text would not have been the last text from him. I didn't hear another motherfucking thing. Nada.

And then he's there this weekend. And he says maybe 25 words to me all night. And is within feet of me all night, and says not a word. AND, this is the icing that takes the cake: He lets his friend talk shitty to me. I stood up for myself, but he just watched it go down.

Motherfucker.

So. I'm done. I'm out. I'm over it all. I don't want to put myself out there, put my guard down, get interested, get hurt. 2010 was one of the worst damn years of my life, and it hurt, over and over and over. And in the wee hours of the morning after the shittiest night out in a really long time, I sat in tears, and I will be DAMNED if I'm doing that anymore.

Nope.

And I want to gut-punch myself for even bothering. For even thinking that I'm being rational about this. For thinking that I really can't be that person who plays with no real feelings. I need to become that person. I need to be the woman who can flirt, play, date, etc., without getting emotionally involved. And while I cringe about becoming that person, I think about my emotions being tangled and trampled, and I ache.

I can't ache anymore.

Music Lover Monday- Valentine's Day edition

I love this song. It chokes me up every time I hear it, and I come close to chunking my ipod out onto the highway when it plays, but also? Oh, sweet caroline, it is so damn sweet.
I don't know that anyone has ever felt this way about me. I do indeed know that I have felt this way about someone before. I would be so blessed to have a man enter my life that would feel this way.

Happy Valentine's Day to all of you, even those of you that have this kind of mutual relationship that I'm a tad jealous of. :)




And now for my bitter screw-you-love Valentine's pick. You knew I'd do it, right??

"If you need my shame to reclaim your pride...

And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists

I never did anything to you, man

But no matter what I try

You'll beat me with your bitter lies

So call me crazy, hold me down

Make me cry; get off now, baby-

It won't be long till you'll be

Lying limp in your own hand."

Blessings louder than dreams

It's no mystery that this year has been hell for me. That I've had my heart torn out, my confidence challenged, my love dissolved. I've tried not to come right out and say things directly here, but several of you know the not-so-fine details.

I had dreams. Dreams of having 3 children, of having a house on a local lake, with a huge living room full of windows with beautiful views. Dreams of my dogs being lazy in the backyard. Dreams of spending quality time with my husband, of fostering that connection we used to have, dreams of making him happy, which in turn would make me happy.
My dreams-the doors have been shut on those dreams.
I don't even think about that lake house in my heart.
I try not to think about the pain and the hurt and the lies and the fancy footwork of someone who is an expert at convincing you of something you don't want, need, or know.
I do think about the other children I won't be having with him.
I do want more children. And I've said it several times, and I mean it-I will have more babies someday.

I know my dreams will change, are changing.
And that's okay.
There's some indescribable feeling related to those dreams...they are forming slowly, painstakingly, and the new growth is fresh moss green.

I'm struggling so much. I can't make ends meet and I don't really have anyone to ask for help. I've had several sweet people offer to help me, but we all know I have NEVER been good at asking for help, or accepting help when it is offered.

Tuesday night I was blessed by Chris (the long-lost @3giraffes). She didn't have to do it, and I really didn't want to let her, but she helped me anyway. And I'm so appreciative. I love her. She's been there when even my family can't.

Last week a doctor at my job wrote me a prescription for my gum infection. He didn't have to do it, but he did it anyway.

Several times last week, I texted two dear friends in a panic, begging for prayers. They both got back to me immediately. They both checked in on my several times throughout the week. They both gave me simple, kind words that worked to calm me, even if only for a couple of hours.

This past weekend my mom bought Christmas presents for my daughter, since I don't get paid until Christmas Eve. She didn't have to do it, and I certainly did not want her to do it, given her own financial struggles, but she did it anyway.

Tuesday morning I woke up feeling down, with a constant, dull ache in the center of my chest. I laid in bed listening to my blood pumping through my veins, and thought about how futile it was to cry, how miserable it was to wake up feeling lost and alone and thrown away. Dreams of yelling and crying and begging were taking up residence in the deep corners of my brain, and I couldn't push them away.

But Tuesday night, I felt better.

Blessings.

I know I am blessed. I know I should be more thankful all the time. I know things could be worse.

I am so thankful that I am loved, that people give me a chance, that others care about my heart and my life.

Thank you-you know who you are. I couldn't do this hell without you.

The stories we share

I met a woman the other day, at my internship, who is in her late 80's. She picked cotton in Arkansas with her mother, starting at the teeny tiny age of 6. SIX. She remembers picking cotton and putting it in her mother's apron.
She is the first person I have met that picked cotton throughout her childhood and into adulthood.

I met a man last month, at my internship, who has lost his ears and several fingers due to diabetes. He will soon lose at least one of his legs, up to the knee. He rides an electric scooter wheelchair thingy. He honks at people as he speeds through the halls. We raced one another-I was on foot. He won. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and such a fascinating memory.
He is the first man I have met that has outlived his wife.

I am meeting such amazing people at my internship, their histories rich with love, loss, joy, and sadness. I am humbled daily, by their ability to ask for help, graciously. I am so appreciative of the things they share with me, tidbits about their children, their childhoods, their marriages, their losses. I am in awe of them.

The stories they share (and those they hold onto) are so important to all of us. They provide us with the missing pages ripped out of our history books. They can guide us in our own screwed up lives, if we just stop and listen, really listen. They can teach us things about grief, strength, motivation, love, and forgiveness-things we all could use some lessons on.

As I walk the hallways of the facility, I speak to everyone I pass. I shake with anticipation when I enter the building every morning: Who will I meet today? What will I learn? Who will share a piece of themselves with me? How will I make someone's day?

For the lady who told me about the cotton farms in Arkansas, all it took was someone taking an interest in what she had to say. She spoke more to me, in that 35 minutes, than she has in the past month. And it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my ability to just LISTEN and take interest.

When I leave at the end of the day, I am reminded that I have so much to learn-about life, love, patience.....

Driving home the other day, I was struck by how similar these two communities are: the aging population and the blogging community. With a blog, we have so much to offer one another, just in sharing about our own lives, our own hurts, experiences, mistakes, joys. A blog post can be a gift to someone else. It can offer relief, a sense of not feeling so alone in something.

I have said many times that I blog for ME. That I pour myself out for my own sanity, my own relief, my own self-analyzation. And that's true. This space is my soul on paper, in print, carved into the tabletop of the real world. As my followers come and go, I continue writing....when it's easy, when it's hard. When the story is silly, and when it is heartwrenching and frightening. This is MY story.

At the same time, I try to keep in mind that I have readers-REAL people with REAL problems and REAL hearts and minds. I have readers who might get something out of what I put here-a sense of peace, an inspiration, an answer, a starting point for a change....or even just a laugh. And that just amazes me. Truly amazes me.

I am equally amazed when my readers inspire me, lift me up, and calm me down. You guys are a blessing. I am so thankful for this blogging community, so thankful for you, and you, and YOU.

After all the others, he is "the one"

I've been pretty quiet about this whole "adopting a boxer" thing, until last month, where I sweetly stated the following on Twitter:

I'm *this.close* to saying F*$% this adoption place.

8:29 AM Sep 30th from TwitterBerry

We have officially decided to pass on this boxer rescue, which I will now call Lick-my-ass Boxer Rescue. There are a couple of other boxer rescues in our area, and I'm sure we will look into them, but right now I'm so beat down by it that I would prefer to shoe shop online. How about these?:

*As a side note, I can't afford any of these damn boots. I mean, I could, but I would have the guilt FOREVER.*

Anyway, while I drool over the can't have's, let me give you the short version of Lick-my-ass boxer rescue agency:

We filled out the paperwork the very end of July. We waited.

And waited.

Finally, mid-August, we get an email that they are processing our paperwork, & should have someone call us to set up a home visit.

End of August: home visit by the most annoying bitchface volunteer evah. She immediately rubs me the wrong way, questioning how we care for Daisy. Then she starts steering us away from the dogs we are interested in, one of which we met the day before at a dog adoption event. She also starts steering us towards dogs we have not been interested in. She also throws in, "You probably don't want to get a dog that will take your attention away from your daughter." I hate her. I make faces at her after she leaves.

Mid September: We meet dogs, but none that we originally wanted to meet.

Dog 1: Obsessed with the tennis ball so much that he has to be dragged back to his foster mom's car, barking, pulling, & foaming at the mouth. Not at all interested in us, although he was great with my girl.

Dog 2: Adopted before we could meet him.

Dog 3: We meet a sweet dog that just had tumors removed w/ no biopsy results yet. We like him, of course.

Dog 4: Mysteriously, he "became aggressive" the day we were supposed to meet him, so they cancelled the "meet & greet" until they "can figure out what is going on with him". They assure me his profile is being taken off of their site, that we will get to meet him soon.

Dog 5: We don't want to meet him, so I avoid the foster mom's email.

Dog 6: We grow interested in this guy, seeing that he supposedly has a sweet personality. We meet him, and he is very sweet with us. But when he meets Daisy? He tries to eat her face off. Several times. And she's a patient old lady, but she could only take it for 35 minutes or so before she tried to take his face off. He had to be dragged out of our home.

Yeahhhh, not so much.

Dogs 7, 8, & 9: They give us the wrong information about several dogs, all of which we don't get to meet.

By this time, I am more than beat down. They start emailing us pictures of dogs that are new to the rescue, and I immediately respond to the ones that sound like a good fit. We do not get to meet any of these guys. 4. 4 damn dogs that we don't get to meet because the lady is a bitchface. And they have these random excuses for it: "Oh, another family asked to meet him before you did" (even though I responded to the email a full 3 minutes after it was sent to me), or "He's not really 3, he's 7", or "He's not a good fit for your family".

Then the biopsy results come back on Dog 3. Not good. I take the results to my vet, to get an opinion from a trusted, well-liked individual. He says to RUN, not walk, away from this sweet boy. Based on the results, he will surely have more tumor issues. I can't do this. I can't adopt him, only to have him be so sick, only to have to put him to sleep if he gets too sick. I just can't. I still miss my old man dog, and I can't do this shit again so soon. I can't do it to me, my girl, our old lady dog. No.

So I tell them of our decision concerning Dog 3.

That's when all the shitty emails begin. They are pissed that hubby compared adopting him with buying a lemon of a car. They start questioning our "financial ability" to care for a boxer after I stated that I didn't want to incur a cost of more than my mortgage payment right off the bat. Then they want to know if we have really researched the breed: Are we aware how common tumors are in boxers? Are we aware of their needs? Then they get upset that we might not care enough about our 'fur family members', how they do not agree that we have felt steered by them, that they do not need to justify why we couldn't meet certain dogs, that they "must be doing something right", since they have had over 1100 dogs adopted out in the last 5 years. FML.

SHOOT ME NOW.

So, after a few days of emails, we are done. As of September 30th, we are done. We stop responding to the snotty emails from the head of Lick-my-ass Boxer rescue.

After almost 2 weeks of nothing, we decide to fill out the application for another boxer rescue in the area. On October 11th, we fill out the application, look at the dogs' profiles, and pick out a few that we would like to meet.

On October 12th, I get an email back from this rescue, asking for a bit more information.

That same day, Lick-my-ass emails me about a new foster. I guess they didn't read our last email about being done with them? I calmly respond that we will not be adopting a dog with them. The end.

On October 13th, I receive a call from the foster mom of one of the dogs at this new rescue, stating that she would like to see our home and bring a dog, King Tut, for us to meet.

We meet King Tut on the 16th. He is sweet & gorgeous & way too skinny.

We ask to meet him again on the 18th, when it isn't raining, so we can walk him w/ our old lady dog.

We get approved on the 18th.

He comes over and stays.

He is ours.

Here is our Max:

He looks a little out-of-sorts here, after less than 24 hours with my crazy kid & my crotchety old lady dog. But he is sweet and silly and soft and so loveable. He is playful in the mornings. He loves all of the neighborhood dogs. He is scared of my hubby, but is growing more comfortable with him by the day. He fits here.
He also pees & poops on the floor if he's at home more than 5 hours w/out us. He has torn up the most random things, including one of my flip flops, a throw rug, and a My Little Pony. We bought him a crate this past weekend, and he loves it. No complaints from him at all about being in it at night or during the day when I am gone.
He loves to lie on me & nibbles me when I scratch his side. He finally growled this morning, staring out the front door at the pumpkins on the porch. He "talks" to me in the morning when I am getting ready, sitting proud on my bathroom rug, making sweet puppy eyes at me. He follows my girl everywhere, and likes to watch her splash in the bathtub.
He is stealing our hearts.
*******
As for Lick-my-ass Boxer rescue, this week I emailed the one foster mom we really got along with. She is the sick dog's foster mom. I sent her a picture of Max, & asked about her sick boy. He is doing well, she says, and is planning to adopt him in spite of his health issues. We discussed the similarities in personality between the two boxers. She is happy for us. I can only hope she lets the assholes that run that agency know just how successful we were with another agency.

Music Lover Monday

Today's songs are girly, lovey-dovey, sweet. Musically, I'm sorta in that mood right now. Sara Bareilles has some awesome songs, and I found Missy Higgins via Amazon's free downloads.


Night Minds by Missy Higgins



One Sweet Love by Sara Bareilles

I'll be home for Christmas

You may need a tissue. It's so very sweet though. Really warmed my heart.

Click here for video

2nd post of the day! But only to give you another update

I guess I could have just edited my other post, huh?


Anyway, I forgot to mention this bit of news this week:





The ladies at 3Giraffes were nice enough to include me in their award-giving on Monday! How sweet are they?? I've seen this award floating around on other blogs, and I do appreciate receiving it! Thanks ladies!!!

Fathers

When I was little, I remember being a daddy's girl. Somehow, I had it in my mind that my father was the greatest man alive. A hero. The smartest man ever. A rocket scientist (what I considered really really smart at that time). Memories of my father are thick within my brain, and close to my heart. I see:
-The view from my seat next to my father, in his 18 wheeler, back when I was very young. The passing trees & poles mesmerized me, and lulled me to sleep.
-Hiding in the bed, under the covers, when I was about 2 years old, while my father took a shower. I would lie as flat as possible, and try not to wake my mother, just so I could listen to him sing in the shower.
-The smell of his aftershave, and the feel of his whiskers grazing my chin or cheek as he kissed me goodbye in the morning.
-Forcing myself to stay awake long into the night at age 10, when we drove to Colorado to visit his parents. My mother and brother were asleep, and I didn't want him to be alone, so I strained to keep my eyes open.
-My father sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our fireplace, head down, eyes closed, playing his acoustic guitar, and singing.
-The time my father stopped on the side of I-35, to help pull three men out of a fiery crash. The car was upside-down, and my father and another man were the only ones who actually put their lives in danger to save these people.

I would be lying if I said all my memories are fond. I remember the yelling, the fights, the arguments, the frustration, the panic, the pent up anger. I remember my mother's sighs, and my father's rage. I remember being the mediator, the one to smooth things over, the one to calm every one's nerves. I remember my own angst when my mother would decide to give my brother and I attention, before she even looked at my father.
Things were complicated in my family. From a very early age, I discovered that there are two sides to every story. I began to realize the story of my parents' marriage was different, depending on who you listened to. I remember the first time I realized that others were annoyed or embarrassed by my father. Sadly, I became one of those people too.

For all his faults, I love him dearly. I know, in his own way, he has done the best he can do. And that's all we can ask for, right? He's still my father, and I take offense when others speak badly of him. I also take offense when he speaks badly of other people that I love, so it all evens out, I guess.
He is my FATHER. We don't choose our parents, our parents don't choose us. All we can do is work at loving one another.

***

My husband hates hospitals. Not only was he hospitalized for a long amount of time when he was about 17, but he also had several relatives grow ill & pass away in hospitals. He had several friends die as well, while growing up.

When we met, we were friends first. We spent a couple of Saturday nights in the ER, because he and some of our other friends had gotten into a fight. I always made them all go to the ER, because I knew I couldn't just put a band-aid on the injuries they sustained. We spent about 10 hours in the ER once, while they stitched his eyebrow, his fingers, and took x-rays of his wrist. He laid there sweating. We laid head-to-foot on the ER bed, talking about all the food we wanted when we got out.

My husband took me to the hospital to give my mother a reprieve from her vigil at my grandmother's bedside. We were not even engaged at the time; just dating. He sat patiently in the waiting area for hours, while I lay on the bed next to my grandmother.

My husband took me to the emergency room countless times when we were dating. I had two heart conditions that worked against one another, and that summer, my heart medication no longer worked. Nor did any of the new medications my cardiologist put me on. So, it became 'the thing to do' several times a month: I'd call him and ask him to drive me to the hospital. He'd show up, take me to the ER, and wait with me. Then he'd go into the ER with me, sit & watch as the doctors worked on me, asking the same questions over and over. Then, he'd hang out for the next couple of hours, sweating, while the IV worked it's magic. We would lie head-to-foot and talk about food.

Five years ago, I had heart surgery. My medication was no longer working, and I had recently been in and out of the ER a dozen or more times in the last two months. There were no other medications for me to try. My husband woke up early, and took me to check in. He sat with me in the little exam room, waiting for the nurse to come and drug me up. He took a permanent marker and drew smiley faces on the bottoms of my feet. He held my hand when they gave me the drugs. He sat sweating in the waiting room for about 5 hours. He was the first person I saw as they wheeled me out of the OR to recovery. He stayed with me that night, uncomfortably sleeping in a chair.

Almost three years ago, my water broke in my sleep on a Sunday morning. My husband took me to the hospital, and did all the things husbands do when their wives are in labor. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and in between contractions, we watched The Food Network. My husband was sweating.

When they said C-section, I cried. My husband held my hand. He put scrubs on, and stood by as they cut me open. As soon as they pulled my girl out, he left my side, and went to hers. He videotaped her first few minutes in this world, and calmly whispered her name. When I passed out from all the medication, he held his newborn daughter, all alone, in the recovery room, as she cried.

He didn't have to stay in a place he hated, any of these times. But he did. He put himself in a highly uncomfortable position each time he walked into a hospital. That last time, he walked in the same way he had walked in every other time: nervous, uneasy, sweating. But that last time, the result was something far different: He became a father of a little baby girl, who stole his heart.
My husband is an awesome father. He is laidback with her. Adores her. Is so affectionate with her. Lets her make tea for him in her little play kitchen. Lets her put things on his head. Reads to her when she asks. Buys her cute clothes. Makes her laugh, wipes her tears, and kisses her boo-boos'. Gets rowdy with her, just the way she likes, and swings her as high as she wants. Calls her his 'love bug', and says silly things to her (like 'booger souffle' and 'mongo head') to make her say 'DAAAAADDDDDDDDD!', as she falls over in a fit of giggles.

My husband works very hard, and I sometimes consider him a workaholic. But he has worked so hard the past year to be home more, to spend more time with my girl. She runs towards the garage when she knows it's him; her face lights up when he opens the door.

Their adoration for one another is endless. It is all-encompassing, and lovely to watch.
I am so very proud of my husband, for the father he has so effortlessly become, from Day One.

A week late, but still just as sincere

To my sweet husband, who doesn't think I ever use the word 'sweet' in a non-sarcastic manner in front of the word 'husband':

You turned 30 just a mere 6 days after I did this year, exactly a week and a day ago. And it is normal form for me to be late, isn't it? I know you wouldn't have it any other way from me, now would you?
I need you to know that I have loved a large majority of our last 10-odd years together. And the small minority of time that I didn't love?: Well, it was when you weren't here. But I still loved you, even then.
In the beginning, you made me giggle, made me feel pretty, and had this easy way of making me feel cared for without being overbearing. You let me cuddle in bed, let me put my freezing-ass feet on your legs under the covers, and I do remember sleeping pretty damn good on my old-ass bed with my head in the crook of your arm. I will not forget when the lady at that grocery store said she could see the love between us.
Now, you still make me laugh, whether you know it or not. You still make me feel cared for, even if you do tend to be a bit of a 'father bird' every once in awhile; I know you mean well. You don't seem to like to cuddle so much under the covers, but who can blame you when all I want to do is tickle you or put my cold-ass hands and feet on your warm body? And now, at the ripe old age of 30, it is not so comfortable to lie with my head in the crook of your arm, but I still like feeling your presence in our bed. (Plus, you are soooo my personal heater!)
I know you like to joke that you have always liked older women, and here I am, your wife who is 6 whole days older than you. But really, we were both pooping our pants every other hour and eating every other other hour at the same time. Yeah, I might have had 6 days' experience on you, but really, we were newbies together, honey.
I truly am glad to be with you, after all this time. I do think we are like oil and water, but sometimes, oil and water are the perfect combination. You are just what I need; I am just what you need. You ground me, whether you realize it or not. All I have to do is look at your face when I'm getting upset about something that isn't really that big of a deal; I don't want you to think I'm a nut, so that grounds me. (although I know you probably do think I'm a nut-you have seen what tree I fell from!) I hope that I ground you at times as well, and not in the bitchy-bossy-wife kinda way.
You still surprise me with things you say and do. You still put a smile on my face, just like my 17 year old Will did. And although you are sometimes crabbier than I imagined you would be ,I am so very glad you are my Wyoming King Crab, and no one else's.
You are a great daddy. It seems to come so easily for you. When I am strung out from our girl's bossiness, you seem to be so calm. She adores you. She must have gotten that from me.

I love you honey, and I can't wait to turn 40 & 50 & 80 with you.
~always, me