In Praise of the Midhusbands

We've come a long, long way together
through the hard times and the good.
I have to celebrate you, baby.
I have to praise you like I should.

This is the longest it's ever taken me to finish a post. I started this one in November of last year, around my anniversary. Some subjects are just too big, too huge and too important to do justice to in a blog post. But this is important.

Being the husband of a midwife is not an easy thing. This article in Mothering covers some of it. The missed birthdays and sleep, the interrupted lovemaking, the tears for someone else's experiences. I heard a midwife say that midwives have a higher than average divorce rate. I couldn't find any official statistics to that effect, but from what I can see, it's probably true. Part of it is the stress of the job, being on call, holding too much responsibility for any one person. Part of it is the tendency of midwives to be cussed, independent and not well-behaved women. It takes a lot of determination to stay married to a midwife. A lot of grit and love. A different kind of romance that will make a peanut butter sandwich and stay up until 1 while she sterilizes instruments after a birth because another one is coming soon.

I am married to a wonderful man. Without him, I would be less than half of who I am. It's not just that he's my other, kinder, stronger half. But he makes me better when I'm around him. His heart teaches mine to beat in rhythm. He's warm in the night when my feet are cold. He doesn't talk to strangers much, but he's my anchor. Making eye contact across the room gives me the strength to speak to anyone. I can lend my emotions to others because I know he'll hold me when I come home.

I love you, baby.