Why I love my husband

So Doug and I saw the "John Adams" miniseries that was based on David McCullough's book at Costco awhile ago and picked it up. We have started watching it in chunks.  I think its a little distracting for Doug to watch it with me, because I have been giggling a lot through the whole thing (which is unfortunate, since its really not such a funny story, that whole American Revolution thing).  But finally, after Mr. Adams makes a comment to Thomas Jefferson about himself and I lost it again, Doug said, "Why are you laughing?" and I couldn't help myself as I responded, "Because he's you!"  Now don't get me wrong, I don't mean to sound arrogant--I don't think that Doug is any John Adams.  But if he is portrayed accurately here by Paul Giametti, they've sure got some very, very similar personality traits.  In the scene where Abigail smiles somewhat wryly at her husband and tells him that he's not very good at hiding his impatience with those less intelligent than himself, I reacted the way I imagine teenage boys do to the over the top jokes in Will Ferrell movies.

There's something wonderful my brain does for me when it comes to the people I love the most.  I can see all the wonderful things they are and all the wonderful things they have the potential to be, but--just as importantly--their flaws become somewhat endearing and amusing to me, rather than irritating (and many of my wonderful loved ones have extended this same generosity to me).  Doug isn't always as patient as he ought to be (even with people he does think are as intelligent as himself!:) ), he can be as moody as a menstruating teenager, and he can be a bit lecture-y at times.  But its amazing how much those things don't bother me.  And yesterday was a perfect example of why.

He came home part way through the day to make himself lunch.  I have been helping the kids make very simple Christmas crafts each afternoon after Keilana gets home from preschool.  So he walks in and immediately starts asking her excitedly about where her gingerbread man was.  Then he listened with keen interest and a big smile as she told him all about her gingerbread girl.  He jovially complimented the decorated banister and told her what a good job she did helping me put up the garland, lights and stockings.  He hollered to Dylan (who was, of course, distracted in his own little world with some toy), who responded by smiling very big, scrunching up his nose and running full force to Daddy's legs, which he began to pummel intensely with both fists.  Daddy of course responded by picking him up and tickling him until he couldn't hold onto him anymore.

After work, he came home and Keilana was dancing (if the spastic jumping about she engages in can fairly be called dancing) in the livingroom, giggling and crazy, so he stood back behind her and just watched with a gigantic smile on his face.  Then he did a little booty shaking of his own next to her, making her laugh terrifically, before the dancing scene fell apart (its hard work to dance that hard, after all).

The last few months at work have, for many and varied reasons, been extremely stressful ones for him.  Most evenings when he gets home you'd never know it.  Instead of the kids being one more stressful burden or taxation on his energy, you can see him revitalized as he comes through the door and pours his heart into them, and all three of them light up.  When he has a rough day, it doesn't usually make him more likely to lose his patience with the kids.  It usually makes him more likely to dance with Keilana and wrestle with Dylan and snuggle with them both. 

There is so much to love about him as a husband, independent of our children.  But what woman could possibly avoid falling more deeply in love with her husband upon seeing the joy that he brings her children, and the joy they bring him?  

The kind of father a man is to his children says a lot about the kind of man that he is.  For all his faults, I'm so glad that he is the man I chose to be the father of my children.  Our family is strong relying upon him.