Change We Can Believe In

When Mr. Forty signed up to be my husband (less than a year ago) he did a lot of stuff. He packed up his house in Atlanta and he moved.  (His house is still for sale, btw, please let us know if you’re in the market, it’s very nice). He wedged himself into my tiny bungalow that was just big enough for me. He did wedding stuff, like spray painting picture frames silver and ordered cafe lights on the internet and tasted cake. He gave up wearing socks (this really doesn’t count as a sacrifice, I just thought it was worth pointing out). He bought a house with me – almost impulsively (it was the first and only house we saw, we still stand by it’s perfection, but he saw scores of houses before he picked the one he bought). He found my Old Dog when she decided to take her final nap in a sun spot and not wake up. He agreed, three weeks later, while studying for the bar, and anticipating a move into the new house, and working on all the closing issues for the house, to go to the Humane Society with me and Little Dog to go find a new furry friend. He studied for the Bar, surrounded by boxes, with a new wife, in a new town, with a puppy, in a tiny bungalow. He took the Bar Exam in Florida – not an easy feat. And he kicked it’s ass. He got a new job. He knocked me up. He has been 100% involved in this pregnancy from the moment we found out. This dude fucking loves me. Yet I don’t think anything prepares a man for what we women do when we gestate.  All that crazy shit I listed (and it’s some crazy shit) pales in comparison to this morning at 10 a.m. when (after a doc’s appt) he helped me pick out a body pillow in a big box baby retail store.  I mean, come on, who signs up for that kind of nonsense?  I don’t know how he calmly endures me. I really don’t. He’s so patient. I don’t think I’m terrible, but nobody could want to stare at body pillows at 10 a.m. Nobody. I’m a tiny person (as we may have mentioned) and the weight and Critter are really putting me at a disadvantage. My joints are mad, my circulatory system is mad, my back is mad, everything is just… mad.  And yet Mr. Forty quietly rubs Tiger Balm on my knees, heats up my Happy Bag of Warming Rice, brings me water, and stares at body pillows with me. It just leaves me in awe. I didn’t marry him to be taken care of, I lived long enough without anyone taking care of me.  Mr. Forty isn’t the protective type. He’s not the controlling type. He’s not the jealous or competitive type. In fact, he is the most confident, self-assured, and grounded person I know. He lets me be me, which is exactly why I married him. I let him be him. Which is also something I happen to find pretty perfect and without need for improvement.  But lately, even the farm boy has looked at me, usually stuck (literally stuck) on the couch with some strange pain or malady, and he goes into protective mode.  He takes amazing care of me. And nothing in the whole world could make me happier.  Strange how things change....