Don’t y’all wish life was as simple as an episode of Leave It to Beaver?
Give me a tall, handsome husband with a good job, and two gorgeous kids that listen, and eat all of their broccoli. Dress me in an apron, fix my hair up, throw a roast in the oven, and let’s call it a good life.
Arguments would consist of my hubby forgetting to take the trash out, and Jack not telling me he made a B on his math quiz. With a few sighs, finger swags, and a family hug before dinner, all would be well with the world once again. We’d wash the dishes together and all skip off to bed for the night.
But I am not June Cleaver and that is not reality.
My daily life consists of waking up an hour late, throwing my hair up in a top knot (lol, like you didn’t already know that), dressing Jack in the same sweats for two days in a row, running out the door with Pop-Tart in hand, and clocking into work right on time. I come home to the same mess I left earlier that day, and leave it there for another four days until the weekend when I’m forced to be productive.
My husband switches between McDreamy on Grey’s Anatomy and Luke from Gilmore Girls. I get my romance vicariously through Nicholas Sparks novels turned movies and I’m swept off my feet by various A list actors (hello there, Zac Efron). Dinner is spaghetti for three nights, and Taco Bell the other two. I spend free time trying to find matches to socks in piles of laundry waiting to be put away on my bed and cleaning up toys that will be on the floor again ten minutes later.
Arguments are yelling at my grandmother for telling Jack to “shut up” and in turn, getting yelled at by Jack for yelling at my grandmother. Constant eyes are being rolled at my toddler for pooping in his pull-up, yet again, and not telling me about it…yet again.
At night I attempt to give Jack a bath, start a load of laundry, bathe myself, spend quality “phone time” with my best friend to update each other on our lives, and brainstorming ideas for my photography business. And every so often (more often than not, really), I’ll browse the internet for homes I can’t afford in cities I will probably never live in.
I lay awake at night, staring at my ceiling, dreaming of another life. It changes here and there, but for the most part, it’s pretty consistent. I’m living in a big city, in a beautiful farm house. Mountains around me. A barn, field, and studio in the back for my photography (seriously, that part will happen one day). Jack and (possibly) his little brother or sister run around the yard playing some silly game.
Camera in hand, I pan around capturing everything, and the frame lands on him. I lift my eyes from the view finder and lock on him. He looks at me like it’s the first time we’ve met, like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. And he just laughs and shakes his head because he knows I’m having one of those ridiculous “I can’t believe you’re mine” moments. He knows me.
He’s simple, but complex. He loves to be outside and read. When he smiles he lights up everyone and everything around him. His laugh keeps you warm for days. He’s strong, stubborn, and puts me in my place, but is so sweet that I melt. He’s a leader, a lover, a wanderer, and funny as hell. He walks confidently in his faith and lives for helping others. He’s perfect for me. He’s my husband.
I’m a million miles away from that point.
I’ve got a mess right now. Jack and I are on each others’ last nerves. I’m working an extremely difficult job full-time, attempting to run my business full-time, and trying my damnedest to be a good mom to my crazy kid.
I’ve got goals. There’s a lengthy list of things I would like to accomplish in a few weeks, months, years. I’m not gonna get my picture perfect husband anytime soon, and that’s okay. I don’t need him. I’ve got Jack. I’ve got me. And we’re pretty wonderful.
We have this weird relationship where we can’t stand to be around each other for more than twenty minutes, but can’t stand to be apart for less than that. Half the time he says I’m not his “best mommy ever”. But the other half, he wants to be held and told stories like a baby. Jack loves his momma, and I know it. I feel it. Even when I’m pissed, I feel our connection even deeper. We’re our own kind of family.