My husband is a person who needs human touch. He loves to hold hands, hug, and snuggle. Even if we’re just sitting on the couch watching tv, he’s touching me somehow. He’s much more comfortable with affection than I used to be. I didn’t mind the occasional hug or kiss but I needed my space.
Physical space wasn’t the only thing I needed. Growing up in a culture where a woman is expected to marry a man who will take care of her, I went out of my way to prove my independence. Especially in our early dating years. Yes, I can carry my books myself. Yes, I can carry all 5 grocery bags up 3 flights of stars on my own. No, I don’t need you to open my car door for me.
When I began doing my Passion Parties, I worked a lot of nights and weekends. It’s the nature of the parties. Every time I ventured out into snowy Syracuse to do a party, he asked me to call to let him know I arrived. He also wanted me to call before I headed back home, to let him know I was finished working. I hated doing this, but I did it anyway, for his peace of mind. Those calls felt like chains, chafing me every time I dialed his number. (This was in the days when texting wasn’t yet popular.)
The calls felt like he didn’t trust me to take care of myself. That I couldn’t drive in the snow. That I couldn’t navigate the highway in the dark. I felt invincible back in those days, like most young twentysomethings.
Over ten years later, he still asks me to call or text him before I head home from a blogging event or a Passion Party. He doesn’t even ask me to call or text anymore. Now, it’s almost out of habit that I do it. To give him credit, he also calls or texts when he’s on his way home from work or a night out with the guys.
I realized why it doesn’t bother me anymore.
Our lives are so busy with work and the kids, it’s rare we have a chance to chat. Texting doesn’t replace talking, but it gives us a chance to catch up. His commute is through public transportation so I don’t have to worry about him texting while driving. The nights when he works late or if I’m out late, no matter what we say when we check-in, we always end by telling each other, “I love you.”
I know it’s morbid to think this, but if anything were to happen to me during my trip home, I like knowing that the last thing I tell my husband is, “I love you.”
And I do. Love him.
This is a post inspired by From Left to Write’s March book club selection, Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor.
During the fifth month of her pregnancy of her first child Natalie Taylor is devastated by the sudden death of her husband. Her journey with grief is chronicled in the memoir Signs of Life. Join From Left to Write on March 29 as we discuss Signs of Life by Natalie Taylor. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own. Affiliate links are contained in this post.