“Your husband is a saint.”
I’ll admit, I’ve heard that comment more than once. Usually after I’ve done something particularly Tiffany-tastic like back the car into the house, drag him to the midnight release party for Breaking Dawn, picked out a pink Kitchenaide mixer for the kitchen (seriously, when HE uses it even once, he can comment on the color), or perhaps, dropped tweezers in the toilet and left him a post-it about it.
“Your husband is a saint.”
And I never know how to respond. “So you’re saying putting up with me requires sainthood? Thanks.”
But he kinda is.
Every time he allows me to write while he does the dishes or eats Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.
Or lets me listen to a song on repeat one more time because it matches the mood of the scene I’m brainstorming.
The times he patiently prompts me to: “Finish your sentence, please,” when I trail off mid-conversation because I’ve picked up some thread of inspiration.
The way he recognizes my writer-face when I come back from a run and lets me furiously scribble before greeting him.
He’s graciously allowed our family to expand to include the characters from my WIP’s and doesn’t even flinch when I comment, “Mia would love movie,” or “Can you imagine Luke’s face if he heard that.”
He proofreads my blogs (even this one- Hi YOU!) and lets me talk plot lines and conflicts.
He kisses me goodnight and heads upstairs with the puggles and a nightly reminder to “Try and get some sleep tonight.”
He really kinda is.
I’d like to think that the house elves are the ones that make coffee magically appear in the morning or remember to move the laundry I started yesterday to the dryer, but that’s not the case. I appreciate the 17 million things he does behind the scene that enable me to carve out precious writing minutes.
He is.
And I appreciate him: his patience, encouragement & support. I don’t say it often enough, but I do.
And when I get woebegone about my chances of finding an agent, he looks at me in exasperation. I used to think it was because he was sick of hearing the same lament – until he finally told me, “You’re being ridiculous.” And clarified that he wasn’t sick of my refrains (although he might have been this as well), but actually he was annoyed that I would doubt myself. In his mind, I was already successful and there was no way I could fail.
It’s time to surrender the argument and offer to polish his halo.
So dearest, saintly Husband, thank you and happy birthday!
