Last night, the Jedi was in a funk. Probably because today is his father’s 6th anniversary in Heaven. Also because of some other work stress and guy stuff. And so I did what any normal wife would do. I sent two kids to youth group at church, tucked the other into bed, and then sat on his lap. As I encouraged him to talk about his day, I pulled my shirt out and shoved his head up in it. “Go on. I’m listening,” I said. He stifled a laugh and said he didn’t want to move for the rest of the night. A few minutes later he was comfortably discussing his funk, so I took my top off. He smiled and our conversation continued. I offered him encouragement and kissed his lips. After another sentence or two, I took his top off, too, and scrunched his chest hair. Wooly booly yum. Turns out, boobs are the best medicine for men. Can’t have nary a funk when your wife is rubbing her boobs in your face.
Later we laid in the dark and tried to return our breathing to normal. We were tangled in arms and hair and legs everywhere, completely absolved of whatever negativity that threatened him before. I felt Bryon’s heart beating under my hand and watched his profile in the dark. “I love you,” I said.
He paused and breathed in and out once more. He rubbed my hand with his fingers and considered his response. “I really love you,” he said slowly.
There are days that my husband says very little in ‘pink’ and I am left wondering what his feelings truly are about this or that. He thinks he’s explaining but I don’t understand his wording. But there are other days that he speaks volumes with one short and deliberate phrase. It’s his effort, the breathing, and the consideration that gets my attention. He doesn’t realize how powerful his love is and how it’s the best medicine for my soul. That naiveté is both frustrating and endearing. I’m so blessed he’s mine. And he really loves me.
He lay there smiling and saying “wow.” Then, “If I could bottle that shit, I’d never have a bad day again. I feel like I’ve just gone back to a treehouse that I haven’t seen since childhood.” Well, okay then.
The moral of this story is: the best medicine for men is boobs and a treehouse.