Can you even stand another Birthday Suckhole post? What if I say it’s not MY suckhole I’m going to try to fill today? Will you stick around? I hope so. Here goes . . .
Dear Trophy Husband:
Your birthday is marching in with much less fanfare than mine a week ago. No friend visiting from home to take you to breakfast. No new website launching. No strong-arming your friends into writing love notes for you to hang all over your blog.
Totally not your style.
You let me be the big, crazy, needy one, while you? Fly under the radar. Keep your cards close to your chest. Seemingly content to be the foundation for the rest of your family to build itself on.
You’re good at it. You’re calm. Loyal. Devoted. Dependable. The perfect mix of capable traits to lead our little family. You’re simpler than I am. Easier to please. Much more content to be where we are, together, than any other place in the world.
Which probably makes it all the more exhausting for you to have a handful for a wife. To be married to somebody who is on a constant treadmill of what-ifs and oh-nos and what-abouts and holycrapballs. I suppose you could have picked an easier woman, but you didn’t. You picked me.
And here we are at your birthday. No big party planned. No brightly wrapped gifts. Not a single birthday surprise up my sleeve. And it’s got me a little on edge because I don’t always believe you when you say you don’t want anything. I mean, who doesn’t want anything? For their birthday? Or any other day? Everybody wants something. Don’t they?
Not you. You always say “I don’t want anything. Just chips and salsa and the remote.”
One year at Christmas all my dad would say he wanted were brown socks and handkerchiefs. Because even if there was something he really wanted, he sure wasn’t going to tell us kids. He never wants us going out and spending money on something for him. So, brown socks and handkerchiefs was his stock answer to the question “what do you want for Christmas, Dad?”
You know what he got? Brown socks and handkerchiefs. From all of us.
Maybe it was a gag. Maybe we got him something else, too. I don’t remember. But the point is this: everybody wants something.
I’m sorry this isn’t the year. I would love to be able to shower you with new gadgets or weekend getaways or something to wear or a fancy dinner out or that new tattoo or friends from home or whatever it is that you would really love to tear in to, cost or time or priorities be damned. I’ll do it someday. Maybe that desire is more for me than for you, because it feels so good to splurge on somebody you love every once in a while. Either way, I’m going to do it someday.
Who knows? You just might like it.
This year you get chips and salsa and the remote. And a family who adores you. Oh, and you get this post. You get at least one love letter hanging on my blog. Thank you, TH, for the capable and the dependable and the loyal. And the patience and the understanding. The forgiveness. The laughter. The endless hours of playing catch in the yard, singing ABCs, and suffering through Top Chef and Real Housewives. Thank you for always taking a bite of what I cook first, before you go for the barbeque sauce or the honey mustard. Thank you for being so content.
Happy 35th, Trophy Husband. I love you.