My Rock, My Hard Place...

As I sit in the chaos that is currently our home, I am reminded of how wonderful and faithful my husband is. It is no small feat to talk a pregnant woman down from the ledge of panic - and yet he manages to do just that on, lets admit it, a much too frequent basis. Don't get me wrong, I feel the tiny waves of terror lapping at the edge of my consciousness even now. Tiny waves that whisper things like this:

"You have holes in your ceiling with lovely, dangle-ly pieces of pink insulation hanging out..."
and "Your feet look like fat little hobbit feet..."
and "That baby's room will never be finished in time..."
and "There is so much to be done and you can't do any of it..."
and "You could go into labor at any moment. Your house isn't ready for a baby, how can you be..?"

Yes all of these things are true, but thankfully I am married to an optimist who reminds me of things like this:

"We are one step away from having blessed air conditioning, and just in time..."
and "You are so beautiful and at least your hobbit feet aren't hairy..."
and "That baby wont care one bit if its walls aren't painted the minute it is born..."
and "We don't have to have everything done, and who said you were in control anyway..?"
and "You will be a wonderful mom, so who cares about the state of our house..?"

He doesn't always say it just like that. Sometimes it is a subtle reminder in the way he mows our lawn - just doing what has to be done and not fretting over the stuff he can't control. Sometimes he comes straight out and says these things - and none too gently either. But its what I need. It keeps me grounded - at least until the next high tide.

So lets hear it for my Josh, my rock, my hard place, my man of la mancha - who cheerfully shoulders the burdens of our family and shores up the banks of my heart on a daily basis.

The Womb