Some days my husband just gets me. Today for example my husband got a big kiss like this from moi.
Wait for it.
Because he brought his girl home, a Big Mac with a receipt showing he asked for extra sauce. He never asks for extra sauce cause he finds it such a nuisance when I do. But today he did, because he knows right now, is beyond what we've ever faced with our daughter. He knows I'm so scared & a small gesture to show me he gets it, he's feeling all that too & he loves me was as simple as that.
He knows I'm getting all momma-henned-up over my little chicken cause of what's ahead. This next week alone, we go to SickKids to talk about possibly another eye surgery & a different course of action in regards to her ongoing Cataracts & vision loss. Holding my almost-4-year-old down to get in a contact the size of her pinkie nail, while she screams and cries out, "No, momma" is starting to wear thin. That was hard enough back when, our lives didn't revolve around injections & insulin & all that T1D buckles you down with. Then the following week she has numerous surgeries including taking out her tonsils which might make her not want to eat, so anticipating her sugars and her Celiac will be all-outta-whack. Juggling a hospital stay with a restless pre-schooler, still nursing baby & a momma's-boy-five-year-old, is gonna be just utter chaos.
Anywhoo, it's normally now in this process, when we are a week or two away from something big in her life, where I have absolutely NO control, where I just learn to trust she'll make it safety back into my arms. It's now that I start to binge eat. Significant amounts. I can fluctuate up and down 20-25 pounds depending on how stressed or how motivated I am. Like now, leading up to Pip having surgery, I'll pack it on thick, then I'll feel so relieved and grateful she's okay, I'll vow to #StartingMonday and eat healthy and feel good. But normally by day
8, 6 okay 4, I'm popping a piece, bar of snickers back on down the hatch. I'm at lease maintaining a bit more of a balance, but it is in moments like right now, I fall-flat-faced-off-that-wagon and go balls-to-the-wall-all-out-to-town and I eat, it makes me feel good & we do this dance for a few weeks to get by.
And he knows that.
And he respects that space. He knows it's how I cope. Being it right, being it wrong, till you've walked my shoes, our shoes, then try not to judge.
But most importantly he allows me, to be me. To grieve and get angry. To take out frustrations and get short with him, because I can't really get short on anyone else. He's my punching bag, my rock, my annoying, adoring partner. And the fact that he got extra sauce is just his cute way of telling me, "He loves me."