Dear husband: Thank you for ‘getting’ me—especially in this busy season of parenting

My love,

There’s no one who knows me like you do. I’m so grateful for that, yet sometimes it actually works against me. (As we both know.) There’s no getting away with just, “I’m fine” when I’m not or a, “Yep, I’m going to bed in five minutes, see you in there!” when five minutes inevitably turns into two hours.

You know my tricks, you know my secrets, you know every bit of realness there is of me.

You, for better or for worse, “get” me.

During the long, busy days of parenting young children, you understand that coming home and cooking burgers for dinner is the way to my heart. (Bonus points: You know exactly how I like my burger cooked and cook it that way without any criticism for wanting it extra well done.)

You know that Ben & Jerry’s will cure any bad day (Cherry Garcia on a bad day, Salted Caramel Core on a really bad day).

You know that waking me up with a hot cup of hazelnut coffee (with the *right* amount of half and half) is key to a smooth sailing kind of day. (That or just letting me sleep in…)

You know that I get annoyed when you forget to turn the windshield wipers off when we drive into a parking garage on a rainy day. (I mean. It’s not raining in the garage…you don’t need them anymore.)

You know what brand of wine to get if I’m in the mood for red and that if I’m drinking white or champagne it better be chilled pretty hardcore.

You forgive me for stealing the covers and look the other way when I don’t load the dishes in the dishwasher.

You laugh at me when I obsessively check the locks and alarm system before bed. You don’t even remind me that I checked them once already. You just, as they say, “let it go”.

You can see the switch flip when I get angry or uncomfortable about something and you either laugh at me or, again, “let it go.” (So many valuable lessons from Elsa.)

You know doing five loads of laundry (AND folding them and putting them away) is sexier than *literally* anything else in the world (and that, my friend, will serve you well.)

(You also know I just typed the word ‘literally’ in the Chris Traeger voice from Parks and Rec.)

You know you will lose the “what movie should we watch” discussion every. single. time. And you seem to be okay with that (let me know if you’re not…actually, don’t. I like winning).

You let me write about you and our marriage on the interweb for millions of people to see. (I mean, I don’t see you complaining about me calling you my muse…)

You, quirks and all, “get” me.

You know what I look like when I’m ugly crying or throwing up or have dark circles the size of outer space. And you still love me.

You know which specific pair of your sweatpants I love the most and you (mostly) respect that and never wear them.

You know that if I ever met Paul Rudd or Idris Elba, I’m allowed to ask either of them for a kiss on the lips. And I’m pretty sure you know I really would. ?

You typically let things slide when you know you’ve pushed my buttons too far and you walk away (wise decision).

You know that if we’ve run out of plain seltzer, my backup is grapefruit flavor. (Or if I’m desperate, lime.)

You know my look when I’m too tired to deal with life, when I’m at my limit, when I need a laugh.

You know my love language is carbs, cheese and anything Beyoncé.

You know the behind-the-scenes of each Instagram photo that makes its way to my feed.

You know that loud chewing makes my head feel like it’s going to propel off of my body. You know I’m 5’11” even when you say I’m 6 feet. And you know I need medicine, cold cloths and the elusive mixture of complete darkness and silence when a migraine strikes.

This season of raising little kids is hard. But the fact that you know me like the back of your hand makes things easier. In the overwhelm of motherhood, the fact that you “get” me brings me comfort, security, and makes me feel loved—deeply, deeply loved.

And even on those wild days when I desperately need that pint of ice cream, I desperately need you, too.

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