Monday, January 12, 2009
This guy moved with me to Texas so that I could write a dratted book. He finally told me after a few dreary months of living here that if I didn't actually start working on said book, if we were only living in a new, strange city so that I could wring my hands and fret nauseatingly about my inability to work, that he would have a hard time forgiving me. (Hi-Yoh! That cured the writer's block!)
This guy: Who would do anything for me or our animals. Who is inexplicably wearing a Longhorns t-shirt in this picture as the pup gazes adoringly up at him. Who is going to add a tattoo of Ethiopia to his arm. Who came home from the library last week with a graphic novel, a science fiction novel, a history of the Gaza Strip conflict, and I'm Chocolate, You're Vanilla. While I try to stay numbed up and disconnected from adoption anxiety, this guy's dreams are swimming with images of the baby muffin. In one, everyone in an elevator turned away from a horrifyingly disfigured little girl except him. He reached towards her, and she to him. In another, he was pushing his daughter around in a doll stroller before deciding that he should carry her in one arm and the stroller in the other. Last night he dreamt that I was killed in a rocket explosion (still here Papa Dog!) and that he was overcome with sobs, not just because he lost his wife but also the child our agency would no longer trust in his care as a single father.
Stay strong and sensitive husband! I think she is coming and that we can do this. In the meantime, thank you for always making me dinner.