Dearest Jamie,
I’m going to be honest. In our two decades of marriage, I have never known exactly what our roles are. It’s never been clear to me. I’ve always been confused about hierarchy in our household.
See, when I was a kid I was led to believe that males were supposed to “wear the pants” of the family. But that’s not you and me.
I became acutely aware of this about ten minutes into our marriage when you signed all the checks, paying the wedding florists, photographers, and caterers. Then you wrote a check to me.
I asked what my check was for.
You replied, “It’s your monthly allowance.”
I quickly realized that I would not be wearing the proverbial pants of our family. I would be wearing the proverbial yoga pants. And I’m okay with that.
Because the truth is, you’re stronger than I am. It’s just a fact.
Used to, it made me feel like less of a man to know that my wife was made of tougher mettle than I was. But not anymore. No, these days I’m just proud to be loved by such a sturdy person.
And you are sturdy. That’s why you’re the one who does the important stuff in our life. You do the planning, the organizing, the deep thinking, the bill-paying, the technical troubleshooting.
You are the one who keeps our world going. Without you, it’s a mess.
Which is why after you visited Canada for your friend’s wedding, the day you returned home, the fire department was parked in our front lawn. Sirens flashing. The fireman informed you that it was the third time they’d visited our house in the last week. He also took away my deep-fryer.
You are a powerful woman, not just psychologically, but in body. When I had back surgery, for example, and the doctor told me that I shouldn’t lift anything over 10 pounds, you became the family muscle.
I have seen you move wheelbarrows of fertilizer, concrete bird baths, one piano, and I have witnessed you pushing dead Fords onto the shoulders of busy intersections. You would have carried me across the threshold into our honeymoon suite if I would have let you.
But you are more than mere biceps and quadriceps. You are kindness. And humility.
In my life I have met some stellar people. But I have never met anyone who digs as deeply into the vat of lovingkindness as you.
Of course, I could cite examples of your good deeds here, but you wouldn’t want me to. So I won’t.
After all, you don’t perform these acts of goodwill for your own vainglory. You hardly even think twice about helping others. You love people because you simply can’t help yourself. It’s just who you are.
For me personally, however, I think more than anything, you have taught me how to be a better human being. You have pulled me through some dark places.
It’s no secret that I come from a screwed up homelife. My whacked out childhood did a number on me. And I am still paying the price. Nobody tells you that sometimes the aftershocks of a traumatic boyhood wait about forty years to resurface.
But you have helped me find my way through hell. You’re still helping me find my way.
Case in point. As a boy, after my father’s suicide, I began having nightmares. Since my youth, I had regular night terrors. The doctors said I might never get over this aspect of post-traumatic stress.
But guess what, I did. Mostly, because of you.
Whenever I would awake in cold sweats, squinting into the darkness with fear, there you were. Lying beside me. I could feel your warmth.
Intuitively, you would sense what was happening inside my troubled brain. You’d curl yourself against me and just hold me. And I would find myself again.
My anchor. That’s what you are. It sounds clichéd, but it’s true. You are what holds me in place when the waters are choppy. You are that powerful piece of iron that digs into the seafloor and keeps me from going adrift. You are the object which refuses to let me, or anyone else for that matter, fall aimlessly into the night. You are the reason I believe in God.
In other words, you wear the pants.
And as of today, you have been wearing them for 22 years. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Happy anniversary, my dear.