Friday, September 25, 2015
I love this man.
He handles the day to day stuff that sometimes seems so overwhelming, like what in the world are we going to feed all these little people who live with us? Trust me, sometimes feeding kids is more like managing a small circus. He is laid back and can not stop making lame jokes when I am too serious. He is always grounded and steady, when I am frazzled and at my wits end about everything.
However, he will also tell you he is a lousy comforter. I mean absolutely stinks at it. He never seems to have the right words to say. And his response to sadness and stress is to get a grin that rivals the Cheshire Cat's and try to stifle laughter. Not really what you are going for in those situations.
But you know that even though he says that, and even though I have completely agreed with him. The last month has shown something else in him. Today it has been a month since Abigail's birth. In that time he hasn't known what words to say; but he has always known when to reach out to hold me or when to grab my hand and give it a squeeze. He hasn't found any magical way to relieve some of the weight I feel; but he has never made me feel like it's all in my head or that I should be over this already. Even though I'm sure he's talked out, after all talking isn't really his cup of tea; he's always been willing to listen to me cry and ramble. He's sheltered me and been the one who has made the phone calls and answered doctor's questions so I don't have to say the words out loud, "We lost the baby. I had a stillbirth in August." But he's also refused to let me sit in the house and mope under the covers, encouraging me to get out and do things. All these things he does, even though I know he has to hurt too, even if he doesn't show it like me. Most of all though he's here, and he's not leaving.
He doesn't grieve like I do. It's not visible like my grief. In the nearly 8 years I've known him, I've never seen him cry. But I will never forget him making that first phone call after we found out. The one to my dad. I don't know how many time he started and stopped before he got it out, every time half choking half clearing his through. "We're... Im calling... We're calling to tell you... tell you that we... that Danielle... that Danielle lost the baby." Then again at the funeral trying to express the comfort we found in the song "Be Still, My Soul." But even if he doesn't show his grief like I do, even if he doesn't talk about it, he is always here, always with me, always supportive, always loving.
No, he doesn't have the right words, but he is comforting, and I love him for it.