MY LOVE

I love my husband more and more every day.  That is not to say that there aren’t days that I don’t like him very much.  Unfortunately, there are more of those days than I care to admit.  I’m glad that I’ve never been overly obsessed to count them.  That is something that I might have done had we gotten married younger.  I would have bought a specific journal and began keeping notes on the days that he annoyed me or that I wanted to slap him on his bald head.  Then I would periodically go back and read my entries, ticking off the number of days in a year that he less than satisfied me.  And I would no doubt, be miserable.  It wouldn’t matter if those days in actuality outnumbered the days that I loved him dearly.  I would have in writing, as a constant reminder, the number of times that he had failed to understand me, please me, read me right, or reach out to me when I needed him the most.  And I would make that perception my reality and find it hard to be convinced that there was more, better, to our relationship.

We didn’t get married young, we didn’t get married quickly, and we didn’t get married blindly.  Ed and I had known each other for over eight years before we began dating.  We had looked at each other with ambivalence and disdain, depending upon the year, until one day we looked at each other with respect and interest.  We had both grown up and matured, loved and been heartbroken, become independent and future-minded.  We were both on the cusp of 30, me just before it, and he just after.  We wanted more than what we had in our early and mid-twenties.  Unbeknownst to the other, we had both made a silent, personal vow:  the next person we made love to would be the one we married.  Fortunately for us, that next person was each of us, for the other!

Ed and I have such a strong connection to each other when it is just the two of us.  When we have time alone, real time alone, we are all we need.  We laugh; we share tories without jealousy or guilt; we agree on what to do together; we share opinions, fears, dreams and goals; we touch.  And we touch some more.  When Ed and I get a few days away I can’t stop touching him.  It isn’t sexual, but it is desire.  It isn’t about getting into bed, but about getting into his heart.

I know that Ed believes that “Affectionate Touch” is his primary love language, and I would instinctively say the same about me.  I have doubted whether we knew ourselves well enough to admit if maybe we were both wrong.  I used to assume that Ed’s primary love language was “Words of Affirmation.”  But I have found over the years that it doesn’t seem to matter how much I tell him he is doing a great job as a husband, father and man.  Somehow he always feels that I am not happy, or that he is not satisfying me.  Maybe if we would both just touch more, we would both have full love tanks.

Which is why when we get time away from the kids to refocus on us, I think that we do connect so well.  I want to hold his hand, rub his head, run my hands down his back, stroke his leg and knee when we sit next to each other, and otherwise be close to him.  It is instinctive.  I don’t have to remind myself to do it.  It comes naturally because I just want to do it, and because it gives me pleasure, too.  I like the feel of him.  His skin is always soft, even if he hasn’t lotioned.  His hand holds mine firmly, yet gently.  He guides me through public places with an heir of protection.  I love that he is big!  He makes me feel beautiful, sexy and wanted.  I reach out to him because I want to capture every piece of him and keep him with me.  I touch him so that I can remember what he feels like until the next time I touch him.

I would never change our life for anything.  We both agree that we have amazing children who make our family what it is.  We would never risk changing any of them for want of having done things a little differently.  I think we reconnect so easily because we feel like we didn’t have enough “us” time before children.  Yet we are excited that we will be young enough to enjoy each other once the kids are off becoming their own people.  For now, we don’t rush their childhood.  We don’t long for it to be over.  We don’t wish for high school graduations.  We simply anticipate the bittersweet days of childhoods that are the past, adulthoods that will take shape, and the rebirth of the two of us on a more consistent basis.

Ed has answered all of my hopes and dreams for a husband – and then some.  He loves my body, varicose veins and stomach pooch, included.  He supports my desire, and “plans” to become a published writer.  He plans for our future, takes care of our present, and tolerates my occasional romps into the past with “Remember…?” rants.  He dreams, plans, and executes the rational and the extravagant events that are our life.  He keeps me and the kids safe and secure, entertained and active, happy and home-bodied.

I love Ed more and more each day.  I know a day will come sooner than I want it to that will have me wanting to slap his bald head.  On that day, I won’t remember how I feel right this minute.  I’ll wonder how I could feel anything other than frustration and despair.  But there isn’t a journal that will have another blank page ready for the scrawling of an angry, confused and misunderstood wife.  There will be nothing to mark that day as another day that our marriage didn’t go as planned.  Rather it will be a day that I will look back on at another time and wonder how I could feel that way.  It will just be another day.  And fortunately it will be another day that I marvel at the fact that no matter how unhappy I may feel on any given day, I always come back to my husband.  I always know where I belong.  I will thank him for loving me.  And I will love him more than I ever thought possible.