It’s Kyle’s birthday today. I’m not going to tell you how old he is, because I think that he’s feeling a little weird about that, and if the 21st century has taught us anything, it’s that there’s nothing weirdmaking that can’t be made even more weirdmaking by being broadcast on the Internet. So.

Emilia got him sticks for his birthday. She put a lot of thought and planning into that, and it’s important to realize – as she explained at some length this morning when she presented them, with great fanfare, which is to say, wrapped in ribbons and pulled with a flourish from behind her back – that they aren’t actually sticks, but tools. “Car tools,” she explained. “For your car.” (continue reading…)

… is unparalleled.

Happy Father’s Day, you.

*****

(And for my dad, best of men, always loved, always missed, this.)

My husband made this commercial. It’s kind of what he does, but this is a little different, because it’s something that he did on his own, with a partner, instead of with a massive creative team and production company and crew of whomevers doing everything from pointing giant cameras to making sandwiches, and it’s for a kind of competition, the result of which exactly will be I’m not sure what, but still. It’s important to him, and it’s a sweet and funny video, and so I’m going to make you watch it, and you will be grateful: (continue reading…)

My husband and I have been together for over seventeen years. That’s pretty much the entirety of my adult life, and almost half of my whole life so far. Hopefully, it’s only the beginning. Hopefully, we’ll both live long lives and will celebrate the births of grandchildren and maybe even great-grandchildren and those years of our lives that were spent without each other will seem distant and momentary and we will tell people, we have been together forever.

It seems such a rare thing these days, couple staying together forever.  My husband sometimes remarks, when we hear that yet another relationship – a relationship of someone close to us, or someone not close to us, or someone that we only know through People magazine – has foundered on the rocks of infidelity or irreconcilable differences, that it seems that everything, everything these days is stacked against lasting love. What that everything is, he’s not sure, but it worries him, sometimes. What if it comes after us, he asks? What if it sneaks up on us when we’re not looking and consumes us before we even know what’s happened? (continue reading…)

Text of e-mail: “What you can’t see is the epic turd. I spared you that. So the four year old sits on the John and reads Vanity Fair while dropping bombs.”

This is what happens when I leave the house for the day. Everybody gets all up in the body art and then someone takes a massive crap – while, apparently, reading Vanity Fair, which, thank god she’s picking up the important life skills early – and then someone e-mails me the evidence. (continue reading…)

This is what passes for humor in our house. You’ll be forgiven if you get confused and think you’ve stumbled onto rehearsals for a kindergarten performance of scenes from the works of Ionesco.

Yeah. I didn’t get it either.

Because, when I’m not looking, he makes our daughter a Christmas suit out of foil wrapping paper and dresses her in it.

And then, suitably attired, they sit down for cocoa with marshmallows and smashed candy canes, and when I say to myself, this is golden, it is true both literally and figuratively. And my heart shimmers like her Christmas Suit, and life is good.

He gives me this. This is better than the bounty of a thousand Santas.

I don’t say much about him, here. I wrote something about that, once:

I don’t say much about my husband here, on the blog. He appears, now and again, a peripheral character in the stories that I tell. Sometimes, rarely, he comes to centre stage, as an antagonist or foil, in some adventure or misadventure that I’m recounting, but even then the story is usually not about him but about our home or our neighborhood or – most often – our child, and his prominence in the story is merely a function of his indispensability to the scene.

I don’t say much about my husband here, nor about our marriage. I don’t, I feel, have enough propriety over those stories to assert myself as narrator of those stories. They are not mine to share. They are his stories – or, in the case of our marriage, our stories. So it is that you rarely read anything substantive about my husband.

Which is a shame, because you would like him, you really would. He’s a wonderful, wonderful man: one of those souls who is just genuinely good, genuinely concerned about the world around him and everyone in it, who is just naturally, effortlessly generous and kind and not in the cloying manner of someone who wants recognition or a place in the kingdom of God for their efforts but in the straightforward and authentic manner of someone who knows that we all just have to be good to one another if we’re going to get along. And he loves animals and children, all of them, except maybe the really unpleasant ones and the older ones with the silly pants dropped below their skinny asses (the kids, not the animals), and always has, even before we had our own. I’ve seen him moved, really moved, at the sight of young children at play. All of which might make him sound kind of wussy, but he’s not, he’s really not, and that’s the thing, probably the biggest thing, that I love about him: he is at once the kindest and gentlest human being that I know, and the strongest.

And then I said:

He’s not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination… But I’m not perfect either; contrary to all appearances, I am far from it. But I’m perfect for him and he’s perfect for me and that, my friends, my dear, dear friends, is probably all that you need to know.

It is all that you need to know. I struggled for a long time this morning, trying to figure out how to say more. He does, after all, sometimes ask why I don’t say more about him (Do you want me to say more? I reply. Would it be about me not putting my underwear away, or about my vasectomy? – Probably. – Then maybe not.) And I sometimes wish that I did say more about him, so that you could know him, because as I said above, you would love him, you really would. But as I said above: for that, I think, you need only know that I love him, more than I can ever put into words.

It’s his birthday today. Wish him a good one. He’d love that. Because although he doesn’t want you hearing about his underwear or his vasectomy, he likes to know that you know that he’s there, and that he’s awesome. Which he is. So.

(Happy birthday, doofus. Love you.)

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.

Me: So? What do you think?

Husband: Does it say, belongs to Kyle?

Me: No. It means, love knows no order.

Husband: Not, belongs to Kyle?

Me: No.

Husband: I suppose I can live with it.