He’s been busy lately. Up so early that when he leans over our bed to kiss me goodbye, I can’t even squint my eyes open as my lips find his and I murmur something about “love” and “good day”. He’s off saving the world from one computer/techie/network catastrophe after another and then he’s high tailing it to help a gaggle of high schoolers find their voices, literally. It’s Spring Musical time, and nobody but nobody can help an awkward 15 year old discover she has pipes like my Brandon.
He missed bedtime tonight and as I made the rounds with a glass of water for a “last sip” before lights out, my second born balked when I gave a sip to his little brother before him. “Daddy always does me second,” he accused. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t know. Here, have a sip.” He’ll be home soon, weary and happy, probably with a vanilla chai or a chocolate milkshake in hand for his wife who held down the fort all day. He’ll survey the leftover sloppy joes from dinner and grab a plate, and he won’t heat it up.
I’m already in bed, tucked in with all my bedfellows, my kindle, laptop, Bible, cell phone, and Book of Common Prayer. He’ll hunker down beside me and flip on Veronica Mars and we’ll bop our heads in time as “A long time ago, we used to be friends…” pours out of the TV and we let ourselves get suckered into I’ll pass out in an hour or two and he’ll stay up too late.
And then, tomorrow will come.
This isn’t how I like to do life. I don’t like to stumble through our days together, barely finding each other in the midst of it all. Most of the time we live a slow, wide open life. We like our chaos to be the kind that comes from four little boys slamming the backdoor as they run in and out, from noisy and completely stressful dinner hours, from doing our very best to slick back their hair and tuck in their shirts well enough that it stays that way tip we actually get to church and people can see that we did attempt to make them presentable. Of course, the unexpected events of life fill up our margin, the asthma attacks and the family member going through a valley of pain, the sudden behavior issues and the hard questions. Yes, our life is full enough without these slammed days of too much activity.
But that’s the way of it when you’re in a tired season. A tired season is hard, it strips you to the simplest version of yourself, the most needy part. But, you know, I’d do this one again. Even with it’s less than awesome moments, even with the never ending sickness that has invaded our house this year. I’d do it because it’s from this tired place that we’re teaching our sons that what Daddy is spending his time on temporarily is worthy and good and honorable; that a family rallies for those kinds of pursuits. Pouring myself out for the sake of a new way to speak love to my husband, doing all the things so he can go and be… it’s worth this tired season.
Being tired in this season, it’s my offering to this man who walks through the door with grateful eyes and a chocolate milkshake. Because I love him.
And tomorrow, it’s Saturday and this man who is pulling 16 hour days will pry himself from between our sheets as little boys begin their insistent cries for breakfast, he’ll brew me coffee and stir in the creamer. He’ll stand at the stove with his bed-head and sleepy stance, and he’ll fry me an egg. He’ll shush little boys as they drive him crazy all morning. I’ll sleep and doze and sip and eat.
Because I’m tired.
And because he loves me too.