Men must be fed. No, silly, we don’t need to hold the spoon and shovel their peas into them. Their souls. Their souls must be fed. Sometimes their souls do need a good, filling, heartfully prepared meal. But at other times, their souls need a Welcome Home Kiss as they make it in the door. Or a knee rubbed as they watch football. Or dry hands nourished with a good lotion and a gentle touch. Men must be fed.

I am not often as good a wife as I should be. It’s easy to say, “I am a wife first, a mother second, and everything else last.” But it isn’t easy to live. Not when little ones are constantly tugging on my shirt in need or medium ones are in constant competition for my attention or older ones are in steady search of my guidance. It just isn’t easy.

There are days when my husband comes home and I am harried and my eyes are exhausted and my clothes are stained (if I’ve even showered and changed out of my workout clothes that may or may not have been worked out in). Is this look of defeat as a mother what a husband who has battled the world on my and our children’s behalves should see? Do I want the man who has trusted me with our children, everything for our children, do I want him to believe I cannot do my job? I cannot fulfill the promise to love and nurture our family?

Sometimes, it is what it is. There are days that defeat me. I am in the heart of mothering these little people, including the one that will soon tower above me. It is what it is. I am haggard. But even with the complete oil-splattered, flour-dusted, paint-cleaned-up, dehydrated look going on, I can greet Husband with a smile, and a stinky-breath kiss. And he knows he is loved and welcomed back into our nest.

In the ideal world I will pay mind to the time of day and swiftly freshen myself. Even if the kitchen floor is coated in grape jelly residue and the living room looks as if painters will arrive in the morning, I can be refreshed. All it takes is an arm-pit bath, a clean shirt, washed face, brushed teeth and hair. And a smile. And a kiss.

I do not have to wear my day. He knows how hard I work. I don’t have to prove it with a sunken smirk and torturous body odor. I want him to fall in love with me each time he walks in the door. Each time he walks in the door, I want to feed him. I want to feed him with the love I have for him. The love that reminds him I am his first. Even as he crushes a cheerio and dodges the cobwebs on his way to greet our children.

Feeding my Husband is going to be a regular posting of mine. It isn’t a how-to or a should-do. It is my way of  thinking through what I, as Husband’s helpmeet, can do to share my joy, show my love, express my gratitude for the love of my life and the head of our home. If what I write is inspirational, it is purely by accident but nonetheless awesome. I welcome your thoughts, too. I welcome all the help I can glean.

Advertisements