I am married to that guy. Oh, you know the one I mean, because most of you have secretly wished your husband was more like him and the rest of you have not-so-secretly spoken that wish out loud to me. You have lusted over him at children’s birthday parties and when you see him at the mall picking out a present for me “just because.”
When I was pregnant, he indulged almost every craving (in his defense, I kind of set him up for failure when I requested an almond croissant from that off-the-beaten-path pasticceria we found in Florence – but that didn’t stop him from driving to five different bakeries to find a close alternative) and he gave me massages every night when I developed sciatica.
At my nephew’s birthday party, he played laser tag with fifteen nine-year-olds and they were all calling him “Uncle” by the end. He lets my niece dress him up in silly outfits and grins from ear to ear when it makes her giggle uncontrollably.
He is a magnet for small children, all dogs, and little old ladies in the grocery store who need a big, strong man to reach something off the top shelf.
And our daughter. I’ve never seen more mutual adoration. When I was pregnant, I had dreams that since I was carrying her, there would finally be someone who liked me more than they like my husband. No such luck. It’s like they have their own little world, and they could stare into each other’s eyes all day and both be perfectly content. He gets up with her in the middle of the night, rushes home to see her after work, and doesn’t care who hears him when he talks to her in a high-pitched baby voice.
He takes beautiful pictures, has single-handedly put in hardwood floor or tile in every room in our house, can make a killer balloon animal, loves to cook, and is the first to volunteer his time whenever anybody needs anything.
He watches Downton Abbey with me. When I’m having a bad day, he makes me an appointment for a massage, or calls my best friends and arranges a girls night, or brings home my favorite cupcakes. He tells me I’m beautiful every day, multiple times when he knows I don’t believe him, and makes me breakfast before he leaves in the morning because he knows that might be the only time I eat that day.
Last Friday, he emailed all of his clients and told them that he would not be available all weekend because it was my first Mother’s Day and he wanted to make it as special as possible.
And he’s gorgeous. Not just in the “he’s my husband” biased way, but in the majority agrees upon way. In fact, when he was in high school, he was approached by Abercrombie to model for them (and if you’ve been keeping up with the news lately, you know how picky they are). He’s also good looking enough that he knew to turn them down.
With his gentle but persistent pushing and encouragement, I sought treatment for PPD and started this blog.
I’m not gloating, and I’m not trying to make you jealous. Really. I’m trying to tell you that sometimes it sucks being married to that guy. Why? Because I am automatically THAT girl. How could she be depressed? Doesn’t she know how lucky she is? What does she have to be sad about? Most husbands don’t help out a percentage of how much her husband helps out. He works for himself, and can be home more than most husbands. She has so much support. She should never complain about anything. She doesn’t know how good she has it. Why can’t she handle this? Whether these questions are real in the minds of people who know me, or I imagine them because of my own insecurities, they are certainly questions I have asked of myself. When it became quite clear that the crying and mood swings and utter despair went way beyond the baby blues, I berated myself. There are women who do this all on their own. There are women who do this with two other kids at home and who have to go back to work after twelve weeks. You’re married to Mr. Perfect. What is your problem? It goes further. He should have married someone else. He would be so much happier if he weren’t married to such a mess.
Just once, I want to be that girl instead of THAT girl.
After meeting my husband, people always tell me how lucky I am. And they’re right. I am blessed beyond belief. I am fully aware of that and am not saying anything to the contrary. And him being so wonderful isn’t his problem; it’s mine. I wish I could see myself through his eyes. Someone like him chose to be with someone like me. That counts for something. So until I can figure out a way to be that girl, I’m just going to keep thanking God that I’m married to that guy.