Commentary by Danielle Wilson
While I would love to regale you with a parable of sub-par parenting or a tale of teenage text-addicts, I’m instead going to talk about my husband Doo. And for once, he’s not in the dog-house for impulse-buying a car, his ADD isn’t currently driving me to meds and his near-iconic tendencies to leave dirty dishes in the sink rather then move them a mere three inches to the dishwasher hasn’t caused any recent tiffs. He may not be the best spouse in the world, but he’s the best man for me. Here’s why.
Yesterday I received some heart-breaking news; the kind that kicks you in the gut and makes you forget about all the stupid first-world problems you’ve been obsessing over. As I sat in my classroom trying to keep my composure, the first person I thought to call was Doo. I needed to hear his voice. When I explained what had happened, his response was, “Babe I’ve got the kids. Go.” That may not sound like much, but the fact that he didn’t even consider the extraordinary amount of work we had on tap for the weekend (kitchen remodel) nor the insane carpool schedule (SAT, guard, dance and a birthday party) as impediments to letting me be with my family, had me sobbing at my desk. (Luckily it was lunch; no student had to witness their usually stoic teacher completely losing her shtick!)
I got through the afternoon, went to the gym for almost three hours to postpone being alone, and then finally headed home. When I walked in the door and saw my husband standing there covered in drywall dust, I burst into tears again and went right into his arms. This time he said nothing, and just let me talk and cry and wipe snot on his T-shirt. When my oldest asked what was going on, Doo replied, “In a minute. Mom just needs to be.”
That’s why I love him. Doo gets me, in craziness and in sadness. No, he may not always be the best husband, but he’s the best one for me. Peace out.