to my lovely wife, on her birthday

Dear Holly,

Sometimes, when I'm at work and you're at home, you'll call me, or I'll call you, and we'll talk on the phone. Sometimes, during these phone calls, you'll be in the middle of a sentence when Gwen's voice, or Nezzie's voice, or both, will come bursting through, wailing and screaming and drowning out your words.

"Mommy!" Inez will shriek, "I want chocolate milk!"

"Waaahhhh!" Gwen will counter, "Waaaaaahhhhhhhh!"

Sometimes, I can hear their cries in the background. Sometimes in the foreground. Sometimes right in my ear. Under most circumstances, I don't enjoy the sound of small children screaming into my ear, so, when this sort of thing happens, I'll say something like "I'd better let you go." or "Sounds like you've got your hands full." and quickly end the call.

Is this evidence of me being a horrible father, an insensitive husband, and a generally crappy human being? Yes, probably, yes.

Hmm. Let's move on.

It's usually on those days, during those calls, that I can hear weariness in your voice. You sound tired. I can hear in your voice that two girls growing up is a busy thing, a daily, hourly, constant thing, requiring a lot of adult supervision, and that you are—for too many hours of the day—the only supervising adult. Doing a lot of supervising.

Sometimes, after those calls, as I'm sitting at my desk, with a day before me filled with nothing more pressing than pixels that need pushing, I think about the tired in your voice and the wails in the background. I think about the dedication it takes to be a mom and about the love that must—that does—fuel that dedication. I think about what a wonderful woman you are. What a loving mother you are. What a perfect wife you are.

I sigh on on those days—after those calls. I sit at my desk and I sigh. And then, I smile and shake my head in disbelief at my outrageous, outlandish luck.

I love you, babe. Happy birthday.