Reason #4,031 that I love my husband

Earlier today I was feeling a bit blue. It's a week to the day before my birthday and this time of year always gets me a bit down thinking about and missing my mom. As an only child, the sun rose and set on my birthday for my mom (and for me, if I'm being honest, for most of my life). It was an event and celebrated at home (usually just her and me), then later with my dad, with my mom's family, and as I got older with friends too. Every year on my birthday my mom would tell me The Birthday Story which was the story of my birth in the hosptial from the moment her water broke until the moment I was born. Even when I was in my 20s and no longer lived with her, it was our tradition that she would call me and tell me the story. As the years went on she added newer, funnier, and sweeter details. I meant for the longest time to write it down after she died but did not. Now it's been 11 years since I've heard The Birthday Story and it is getting pretty fuzzy in my mind. This year, on my birthday, I plan to write down as much as I can remember (clearly I'm not getting any younger and my memory not any sharper-ha).

So back to my wonderful husband...All of this pre-birthday sad blah feeling is just kind of riding along with me all day. This morning was particularly chaotic with FB starting to scale everything in sight (he's 13 months) and E cantankerous because he missed a nap. So I was feeling tired and blue and overwhelmed scheduling travel for my crazy job (that I love, but that sucks the life out of me sometimes). On top of that I am really missing my girls-my dearest friends (both female and male) and feeling really disconnected from the life I used to have.

There I was, stuck in this gloomy place in that particular moment, when I looked over and the light caught M's face. Well, actually he was standing over the sink getting a glass of water and turned and gave me a sweet smile for no reason other than he's my sweet hubby. With no warning and a bit out of nowhere, I started spontaneously singing "I got you Babe" and grabbed him and leaned close. After the first verse (yes, I take it seriously when I sing):

"They say we're young, and we don't know
Won't find out until we grow
I don't know if all that's true
But you got me and baby, I got you"

If you know the song, you know what comes next is the first "Babe." Then "I got you, Babe." So when it comes time for that first line of the chorus M chimes in with what I can only describe as a gorilla voice with the first "Babe." I went with it and we sang the chorus together and whirled around the kitchen for a moment. Then I ran to pick FB off the chair he had climbed onto since he was about to fall over and hit the ground from at least 3 feet.

The sweetest part of this whole thing is that M is not a Sonny and Cher fan. Nor a fan of any oldies-esque music (except maybe the Iggy Pop and The Sex Pistols). He is a metal guy and tolerates my love for cheesy (mostly 70s) love songs with a mild disdain. But he knew I needed a moment, and he joined me without hesitation...which surprised me...which made me laugh a bit...which reminded me that I am super lucky to have a great partner and best friend. He makes my dark moments brighter, even and especially when we dance badly in the kitchen while our home continues on it's chaotic journey around us.

Developing a new habit (or re-constructing an old one)

Habit. A word rife with meaning. For many of my younger years (read: under 30), I associated habit with something bad, or something I was ashamed of, or what I considered to be the darker parts of me. I had a smoking habit for over 15 years. I had a habit of dating undesirable men. Well, I found them desirable, but they were lacking, shall we say, a certain substance. Or maybe the problem was too many substances...but I digress. I never could develop the habit of working out on a regular basis, because I was too too busy to waste my time on something like taking care of myself (ok, that's still an issue). However, for several years, I had a really good habit: writing. I loved to write and used to do so willingly (almost) every day. I carried a notebook or journal or scraps of paper to jot thoughts down when they crossed my mind: lines of prose or images that resonated and might later become a poem. I used to view the world through a writer's eyes, sharply observing, hearing snatches of conversations that would play over and over in my head as dialogue, noticing the subtle tones in a touch or a glance.

I haven't looked through that lens in a long time. There are many reasons for this. I could spend a lot of time speculating how I ended up so far from where I started. But the goal of writing is show, not tell. I am here today, 30-ish, a mom, professional woman, wife, educated, and a supposed grown-up. Welcome to my attempt to peel back the layers of this person I have become and to find my voice again. Ack, that sounds so clichéd. It reminds me of a job interview when I was asked to compare myself to a vegetable. Caught off guard, I hemmed and hawed for a moment and blurted an onion and said something expected about layers. I read once that clichés are around because they ring true for many of us by capturing commonalities across the human experience. So it is for me. There are many tiers in my story, and I am still walking along the edge finding my way. Thanks for taking this walk with me.