Here is the paradox about parenthood and marriage: having children with the person you love gives you a bajillion new reasons to adore each other, a kerpillion new horizons towards which your hearts, together, can shoot, an infinity of moments over which your hearts can, together, explode into a burst of white-hot stars, but, too, it gives you a septillion distractions, a gajillion reasons to pass each other by on the stairs, a googleplex of moments in which you are just too tired to do anything but murmur love you and blow feeble kisses at each other’s cheeks. If that.
Having children with the one that you love deepens and broadens and enriches, immeasurably, that love, but it also imposes such a strain. The strain is worth it – so far beyond worth that it almost seems ridiculous to say so – but still. It must be acknowledged, because the strain is what tests our strength as parents and as couples, as partners and as lovers, and that we withstand the strain – that we feel the strain, push back against the strain, work with the strain, and flourish – is testament to our tremendous, amazing strength.
To mine, and to my husband’s, and to ours together. But especially to his. Today, especially, the testament is to him.
You, Kyle: you love me, and you love our children, and both they and I thrill you and amaze you and challenge you – how forcefully we challenge you – and you love us all the more for this, and for this, I am so grateful that I could not find the words to say so even if I tried.
Okay, so I tried.
Happy Father’s Day, you.