A Writable Feast
My Husband's birthday came and went this year with little more than professions of love over Grey Goose martinis and exhortations to please put that shitty diaper in the Diaper Genie, dammit. In all of the distraction of BlogHer and blogthis and blogthat and diapers diapers everywhere (cast off from shitty bums), I neglected to acquire cards and gifts and cakes and all of the whatnot that usually attends birthdays.
Which would be fine, really, because the Husband is not a public-display-of-celebration kind of guy. Not particularly interested in gifts and certainly not interested the kind of hullaballoo that puts him in the center of attention. But he does like my attention. To wit: his inquiry, of a few weeks ago, into the whys and wherefores of my lack of attention to all matters Husband on this blog. Shouldn't you be telling the Internet how great I am? he asked. To which I replied, now I will be telling the Internet that you asked that I tell them how great you are.
See how this works? It's hard to be romantic on the Internet. This ain't no quill and quire.
Still, I do see love out there. I know that it's possible to communicate the force of romantic love through code. I love the Junipers in large part because they write their love so honestly, because they strut the beauty of love, because they show so clearly how it is that romantic love, marital love, is made broader and deeper and higher in becoming family love. I loved feeling the love slip through the giddy comedy of the story told by Liz about her Nate's love of animals. I feel all glowy when I stumble across random proclamations of love.
But still, I stumble when I try to express my love for, my gratitude for, my partner in crime, life and family.
I could, of course, simply list his virtues. I could talk about how, once upon an ancient time, virtue meant, simply, manliness, and that, to me, he embodies such manliness. I could talk about his beauty, his heart, his wisdom, his courage. I could talk about how the broad curve of his shoulders thrills me, and how sometimes, when he bends his arm around our daughter, I am nearly moved to tears by the tender strength of his movements, by the quiet ferocity of his love for her.
I could talk about how blessed I feel that we found each other so young, how fortunate am I to have shared so much of my life with him already.
I could talk about how he makes me laugh, and about our secret jokes and shared silly language, about how our humor is a like a pillow fort that we've built around ourselves for our amusement. About how that silly pillow fort keeps me safe and happy and secure.
I could talk about how amazing he is, about how wonderful we are. About how no words could ever really capture how amazing-crazy-wonderful my life is, with him, and, now, with our her.
So I don't even try. I whisper to myself, it would sound banal. And, who would care? Who wants to read it? Keep it private; put it in a card, seal it with a kiss, let him open and read and tuck it away in a drawer.
Except, except... I'm writing this life out loud, now. I write my love for her. I lay out this life, my feelings, upon this virtual table, a virtual feast, and make sweeping virtual gestures to say, here, world, see this bounty! See how rich and sweet and messy this life! Come, share, taste!
So why not share him, too?
A bit tough, and sometimes, maybe, sour... But, always, always at the centre of my table.
Happy birthday, Best of Men. I love you.
We love you.