There are hugs and kisses, smiles and presents. Meals cooked and beds made. It's easy to squeeze a hand and whisper I Love You. I need and appreciate all those things, but they are not the real proof of love in this house. The real proof is my husband.
If I once wondered what love looks like, I don't anymore. Love looks like a man walking out the door everyday to go do a job he not only dislikes, but actually puts him in real danger. Everyday.
I try my best to do my part, to make an equal sacrifice. I cannot. I am simply not as strong or as selfless as my husband is. He encourages me to write, to take pictures, to make things and then he goes to work. Sometimes I feel more guilty than I can express. I try not to think about it because cheering me up would just be one more thing that my overworked husband has to do during his day.
I never imagined myself turning into this traditional wife and mother person. In some ways I am still that radical, young feminist, but then I start baking bread and folding clothes and my edge gets blurry. I'm just so grateful to have this brave, amazing, hardworking man taking care of me and my daughter, that I no longer care if people think of me as anti-feminist. I am me. I am lucky. I am so loved.
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