DH wants to know why I never write about him. Welllll….. He’s not very interesting? No, that’s not it. He doesn’t do gross things that are funny like the kids? Nope, not that either, ’cause he does. I’m not his mommy? Well, yes that’s true. I did write about how we met, but I guess that didn’t tell too much about him, other than his amazing perseverance and patience. How many men can wait ten years and three proposals for a girl to realize she loves him??
DH is a big man. He lifts weights, is crazy strong, shaves his head bald and wears a goatee. My gay uncle says he looks like someone who would beat him up in a bar- and he does. Not beat people up, but looks like he might. But the truth is, he’s never beat anyone up, and he would rather sing show-tunes with said gay uncle while they build Lego things for our kids. (I’ve seen it, folks)
From my Dear Husband, I have learned what true love looks and feels like. And it doesn’t look or feel anything like the romance novels or the imaginings of a little girl. True love is knowing the only thing my husband wants from me is myself, for me to be happy. He has taught me, by his example, the virtue of honesty, and I mean total honesty, even with ourselves about ideas we may have held onto that no longer serve our better needs.
He loves to eat my cooking. There aren’t many things more wonderful to a woman who loves to cook, than a man who adores her cooking. He raves about almost everything I make, and he brags about me to other people. The possible exceptions are beets, and the one time I made Indian food. Not so good. We like Indian food, but at home, it was a serious bomb.
He also mainlines peanut butter. The guy puts peanut butter on absolutely anything. He will make a PB and Cheet-os sandwich, and I’m not kidding. Actually, sandwiches in general are not safe around him. Today, I caught him trying to shove a sandwich he made on the sly, using all my Swiss cheese rolled up with a slice of bread and some mayonnaise. (Mayo is also not safe in our house, a preference he has passed onto Jeffrey.) I busted him, and we were laughing so hard he had to run out of the room.
He is my best friend. We have know each other almost half our lives, although we have been married only 7 years. See the aforementioned ten-year-wait. He is going to hold that over me for eternity. He was my room-mate in college, he walked me through messy, painful breakups with boyfriends, he picked me up when I was struggling, and cheered me on in everything I tried.
( He just came downstairs and is rummaging through the food-storage closet, and asked if we have any mayonnaise!! We’re out! That means we are going to Costco tonight. Now he is blabbering about how I’m a bad wife!)
I’ve written about how much he loves fans. This summer he has come up with a new way to keep me cold. He has set up a fan-relay- that is, he has placed a fan behind the couch, right over the central AC vent that doesn’t reach much, and blows the cool air to the end of the couch, where he has another fan set up, pointing out into the room, where there is another fan, pointing directly at him, on the couch, where he can watch baseball. Or Law & Order. Or the Closer, or any other cop show ever made. He likes cop shows.
Besides me, ice cream is his other great love. Ice cream is not safe in our house, and I have tried buying flavors he doesn’t like, but that doesn’t work. The only thing he won’t eat is rainbow sherbet. And he never uses a bowl. Right from the carton, baby. With a fork- says it cuts through hard ice cream better than any spoon. And he makes patterns with the fork when he eats from the carton. So when I get our ice-cream out to make the kids a bowl, there are fork crop-circles in the carton. Weird.
I have pictures I took one night, of all three of my children, asleep flat on their backs, with their arms flung over their heads. Then I went in our room, and there was DH, flat on his back, arms flung over his head, snoring away. All four or my precious darlings, same position, same night, same time. Priceless.