Sometimes, I forget my husband.

I forget that my husband has fears & doubts & worries.  Partly because I see him as a pillar of strength, the unwavering head of our family.  Mostly because I can’t remove my head from my ass long enough to consider him.

& that’s just awful.

I forget that he’s worried too, when we drop Harrison off at daycare.  I forget that this is hard on him – that as much as I had yearned to stay home, he wished he could solely provide for us.  I forget that it’s not just my own sacrafices, but his too.  I forget that every day that I am tired from work, he is just as tired, plus he probably feels guilty that I have to work.  & that’s probably why he rubs my temples every night.

I skate over the fact that Harrison is his son, too.  That he’s as much of an extension of Nate as he is of me.  That it may be my chin & nose, but it’s Nate’s eyes & curls.  I forget that every time Harrison falls, Nate’s stomach flips just as much as mine does.

I forget my husband.

Because I am too obsessed with my own worries, my own fears, my own selfish desires.  & in a world where good, involved fathers are hard to come by, I have been too selfish in my own worries to appreciate the man that is raising our son with me.

In short?  I suck.

& I owe him about 4,000 temple rubs.