I Love It, I Hate It
I love it when my kids laugh. It’s the most beautiful, healing music in the world. I hate it when one of them screams angrily because the other has directed the beautiful healing laughter in derision for an inconsequential mistake.
I love it when I can take the dog on a walk and stop to kibbutz with the neighbors. I love coming away from those short encounters knowing that I’ve been witty and smart. I hate it when I realize I conducted the whole conversation, complete with hand gestures, smartly and wittily holding a plastic baggie full of dog poo.
I love it when I can get lost in a book from another generation. Don’t get too excited, I mean the eighties. I love reading an Alpha hero who is all hot and bothered by the heroine and thinks (a quote from Loving Evangeline by Linda Howard) “By God, he would have her!” I thought, there is my new standard for romance heroes. Call it the By God I Will Have Her Factor. Even if the story’s PG and the love scenes fade to black, I want the BGIWHH Factor. I hate it when I decide to read more books from that era and wind up slogging through ‘masterful’ heroes who are little more than rapists that blame the heroine for being too appealing.
Most of all, I hate needing the escape because my husband went to the doctor with chest pains and the doctors aren’t quite sure what happened. Not a huge pain that radiates down the left arm kind of thing, so we weren’t totally worried. They think he had an ‘episode’ where his heart didn’t get enough oxygen. A mini-heart attack, kinda. I hate it that his blood tests came back showing that genetics and heredity are vengeful witches that will bite you in the privates. On top of everything, he’s got diabetes.
I love it that he is a hard-working man who provides for his family. He is like the Energizer Bunny that way; he never stops. He is a poster boy for Great Work Ethic. I hate it when he still carries that Must Work Now thing through times when he doesn’t feel well and still has twinges of pain. I hate not knowing when to bite my tongue and be supportive, and when to let my head a-splode and beg, cajole, and threaten him if he doesn’t take it easy. I just plain love him.
I love it when I can take the dog on a walk and stop to kibbutz with the neighbors. I love coming away from those short encounters knowing that I’ve been witty and smart. I hate it when I realize I conducted the whole conversation, complete with hand gestures, smartly and wittily holding a plastic baggie full of dog poo.
I love it when I can get lost in a book from another generation. Don’t get too excited, I mean the eighties. I love reading an Alpha hero who is all hot and bothered by the heroine and thinks (a quote from Loving Evangeline by Linda Howard) “By God, he would have her!” I thought, there is my new standard for romance heroes. Call it the By God I Will Have Her Factor. Even if the story’s PG and the love scenes fade to black, I want the BGIWHH Factor. I hate it when I decide to read more books from that era and wind up slogging through ‘masterful’ heroes who are little more than rapists that blame the heroine for being too appealing.
Most of all, I hate needing the escape because my husband went to the doctor with chest pains and the doctors aren’t quite sure what happened. Not a huge pain that radiates down the left arm kind of thing, so we weren’t totally worried. They think he had an ‘episode’ where his heart didn’t get enough oxygen. A mini-heart attack, kinda. I hate it that his blood tests came back showing that genetics and heredity are vengeful witches that will bite you in the privates. On top of everything, he’s got diabetes.
I love it that he is a hard-working man who provides for his family. He is like the Energizer Bunny that way; he never stops. He is a poster boy for Great Work Ethic. I hate it when he still carries that Must Work Now thing through times when he doesn’t feel well and still has twinges of pain. I hate not knowing when to bite my tongue and be supportive, and when to let my head a-splode and beg, cajole, and threaten him if he doesn’t take it easy. I just plain love him.
posted by Robyn | 4:54 PM
6 Comments:
I like it that you can make me laugh about dog poo.
I love it that we are friends.
I hate it that we live so far away.
I hate genetics and heredity on your behalf.
Hugs on your hubby's health, and hopefully he'll get through it okay.
Anyone who can be witty, sparkling and charming while waving dog poop gets top marks in my book!
Best wishes sent your way...
Mine had the silent kind of attack as well.
It's very hard to make them listen.
I also have a hereditically (my own word) challenged husband. My prayers are with you - just take my advice - NEVER pray for patience!
Sending good healing energy to your hubbie, Robyn, and hoping everyone feels better.
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