Damn girl, that's a lot of fattitude

We were total opposites at the time. I wore a black skirt, white shirt and a red fleece, sweater vest thing, and knee high black boots with chunky heels. I looked a gothic, emo mess, though I thought I was stupid hot. My weight (and oddly my confidence) were the highest it’d ever been. We had almost a 200lb difference between us. He was this tall, skinny, clean shaven kid that wore Abercrombie & Fitch, Timberland boots and his HS alma mater ball cap.

6 years after our first date I was marrying this boy that I’d watched turn into a good man. He had grown into this confident, outspoken, collected, responsible husband that balances me well. He had all traits I longed for in the person I am spending the rest of my life with. When we got married I never would have imagined what was in store for us and the challenges it’d bring.

9 years after our first date we had our first loss and I watched my husband pick up the pieces of our lives and glue them back together for me because I wasn’t capable of doing it myself. He held me in his big strong arms every night and reminded me of the one day, some day rainbow; that the storm won’t last forever.

10 years after our first date he continued to be the glue after our second loss. His love unwavering and constant. His strength unbreakable. His support and encouragement to never give up became my lifeline.

11 years after our first date, they prepped me for an emergency C Section, trying to stabilize my blood pressure and get baby girl’s heartbeat back up, I saw the fear in his eyes, and his fierce need to protect me. I felt his strength and love as he held my hand. I still felt safe.

As they rolled me into the recovery room I saw the relief in his eyes and the pride only a father has. I watched the boy I met 11 years ago and the man I married 6 years ago evolve into a father before my eyes.

I’ve realized that while all of that was important, what’s most important is that I married a man that truly, madly, deeply unconditionally loves me.

I married a man that praised me for farting after the nurses told us how important it is to get the excess gas out from the c-section. A man that practically carried me to the toilet and helped me wipe without any comment. A man that helped me lay down, cleaned my incision and then redressed me in the sexy mesh hospital panties, massive pad included, without a single complaint. A man that would’t leave my side. I married a man that goes to Target to get me nothing but Kotex and stool softeners. A man that got up early to unpack everything from the hospital because he knew it would drive me crazy to have it just sitting there. A man that has done laundry, cooked, cleaned, taken care of the dog, taken care of the baby, and taken care of me for the past two weeks with a smile on his face the entire time. A man that has taken me on “field trips” because he knows how stir crazy I get.  A man that has jumped head first into being a Daddy and changes diapers before I know they need to be changed. A man that has reassured me I’m beautiful and always will be. He’s managed to make me feel beautiful and sexy, even after seeing all of my guts removed, sewn back together, staples removed, at my highest weight in years, bleeding profusely and a sobbing mess at 4am. He’s made me feel like a fantastic Mommy when my confidence is wavering.

I’ve watched the boy I met 11 years ago, the man I married 6 years ago and the father that I saw evolve 2 weeks ago become the perfect example of what a good man and partner is. He has set the standard of what’s acceptable high for our daughter to learn from.