In Bulk


 I may have been bragging at work about how my husband brought home bulk paper products from a wholesale club.

Ok, I was.

And seriously, when I saw the hubz stroll in after work one evening with a huge-ass package of toilet paper under one arm, and a gigantic stack of tissues under the other, I had never been so in love.

It’s the little things, folks.

Lying in bed, after my long day, I found myself wondering if swooning over the hubz joining BJs and stocking up on paper towels was a little pathetic.

But, I mean, he did also get some enormous jars of the natural peanut butter.

I don’t write very much about my marriage. . .

I tend to focus on my children, my role as a mom, and my never ending waterfall of feelings about life.

My role as wife, central as it is to my existence, often takes a back seat to the rest of the maelstrom.

Maybe I don’t write a lot about my marriage because it is so good it would be boring to write about it.  Maybe I don’t want to jinx it.  Maybe it’s out of respect for the hubz privacy. . .  dunno, but I do think the solid foundation of my marriage allows me to wax and wonder about other things, to freak out, and to know I will always have a stable base to which I can return.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband does typical annoying things like leaving glasses all over the house, leaving stinks in the bathroom, letting the kids eat junk, and complaining about the way I hang pictures.  We bicker.  It’s not “perfect.”  And I’m certain I do a shit-ton of stuff that irks him, only he is a lot more generous and forgiving when it comes to not complaining about my, uh, quirks.

He provides for us with a quiet, unwavering stoicism.  And I don’t just mean materially.  He provides calm love, a sense of humor, and faithful devotion.

He also makes awesome pancakes.

So, when he does something like bringing home huge quantities of paper products, it says way more to me than just that he wants our noses and asses to be wiped.  It says he is being considerate of our needs and thoughtful of our comfort.  It says he is saving me a trip out to Target this weekend.  It says he is taking care of us.

My husband has never been a love-letter-writer or flower-giver, except maybe on our anniversary.  I’m fine with this now, but it used to make me feel like I was missing out on something.  Maybe I’ve just become overly pragmatic in my middle age, but I’ll tell you, the messages a load of paper products sends to me at this point in my life is sexy as hell.

I really love that dude.

Like, in bulk.

4 responses »

  1. Pingback: If You Follow Me on Twitter. . . I Apologize For All the James Spader Tweets | momaste

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