One for My Guy

My husband married a fun, spontaneous, one might even argue sexy on a good day party girl and ended up with... wait for it... Mommy.

It's true. I almost feel sorry for the guy. It all happened so quickly. We met in 2003, married in 2005, and by the time I had Joe Joe in 2006 I'd gained 70+ pounds from pregnancy-induced hypothyroidism and had stopped doing my roots. I was so tired all the time. It was a huge effort just to do one load of laundry. I cried daily. I was fearful to take my son to the store lest a car should swipe him in the parking lot. I hovered like a bear. I eyed our dogs with steely suspicion. I felt immense pressure to make every moment magical. I thought I should be cataloging his every breath with photographs, baby book entries and emails. I felt guilty for staying at home and racked my brain 24/7 for a way I could be at home with my boy, my heart, and still contribute to our household. Yes, I thought that being a stay at home Mom meant that I wasn't contributing. I had to find a way to justify my very existence. I tried lots of things only to find that it was my son of the thing. The thing always lost out. I failed. Miserably. And often.

Hypothyroidism slows down your body functions, including your metabolism and thought processes, and basically slowly drives you insane. For real. I could barely hold my son up at six months, or walk twenty feet down the street without panting for breath. I was fearful all the time. When asked my middle name I sometimes could not remember. To make matters worse I turned to food for comfort and to quell the anxiety I was feeling.

Then, when Joe was nine months old, I was able to become pregnant with Lily. That was the plan. I We wanted anther child, and at the age of 37 the advice was to start trying when your baby is nine months old. What can I say, we got lucky or blessed or both. Standard pregnancy blood tests ensued, and miracle of miracles one day my doctor sat across from me wide-eyed with disbelief as he read me a three digit TSH number. Vindication was mine! I'd been complaining for months that I was dieting but still gaining weight and he always gave me the "Uh-huh, sneak another cookie while you're at it" look. Shortly thereafter Levothyroid became my new best friend.

It's been a long process but I'm slowly becoming me again. I want the time back with my son. I want to run with him and play and sing to him without a voice tinged with love but also sadness and desperation. We don't always get what we want.

I've decided to stop beating myself up for having been sick and tired and to start living with vitality. I tossed out a hook and snagged myself and started reeling me in. For a long time I thought that any time spent on myself was time stolen from my children. I'm beginning to realize that time spent on myself is a gift to my children. I'm taking morning walks and eating better. I'm wearing makeup. I'm brushing my hair.

Time spent on me is a gift to my husband as well. What? I have a husband? Oh, that's right! When I became a Mom I grew so focused on my children that I forgot to be fun. I was a good Mom, but a lackluster wife and partner. You see, any time spend on my husband was time stolen from my children. Little did I know that time spent on my husband was one of the greatest gifts I could give my children.

It has been said that the greatest gift you can give your children is to love their mother. Isn't the same true of ne'er oft thought of dear old Dad?

Last night Mom watched the kiddos while my husband Dennis and I went out for margaritas and tacos. We talked. About the kids. And then a miracle happened. We started talking about him. As he began to share with me his hopes for the future I saw him come to life. It was like watching a train huff and puff and rattle and screech, eventually working up to a smooth and proud glide. It was beautiful.

We finished our food and checked his watch and determined that if we were to head home right then and there we would arrive just as Mom was putting the kids down. That's a big no-no. The distraction would have them in a frenzy and they wouldn't be able to go down for hours. So we did what any couple would do. We went to Target and picked up a t-ball stand and a twelve pack of beer. As we got back in the car and realized that we had failed to kill enough time for an uneventful re-entry we decided to stop by the driving range just down the street from our house and have a beer. Dare we? We dared. I asked Dennis what might happen if a policeman discovered our folly. He said, "You're right, officer. You got us. Two middle-aged people sitting in a parking lot at a driving range on a date night having a beer." I giggled. We hadn't done this since we were teenagers. He began detailing some teenage exploits of yore. A friend had scaled a fence and stolen a keg. Another had punched his cousin in the face. I asked if these friends were on Facebook so I could tease them. We smiled and laughed. And it was good.

As Father's Day approaches, I'm going to make a point to remember my husband more often. Not as a partner in parenting, we've got that one nailed, but as a partner in his dreams and in fun.

I love you Mr. Snugglepants.


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