I’ve been thinking lately about what makes M such a perfect partner to me, given the few fundamental things that aren’t “right” about him: his hobby which is something related to little metal tanks and army things-not in and of itself offensive, but since it’s not a practical hobby (working on cars, building shit) …. His taste in music, which for some reason does not include and jazz, blues, or acoustic style folky music but does include f-ing Bjork…

So. Given those things, which were once deal breakers for me and now obviously are not, why is he such a great match?

Quite simply, he is my best friend. This last week (well, several weeks actually) I’ve realized how much I depend on and trust him and confide in him and him alone. He’s the one who saw me writhing and crying every night in pain, when the rest of the world (save for mel) saw only a grimace or two here or there. He would get out of bed to rub my back when a spasm hit, and he will still stop what he’s doing to come to me when I call him.

He’s who I tell when I’m scared or tired or not sure I can make it another minute.

In the hospital, before they came to get me for the surgery I had a panic attack. I wanted to get up and leave. I was gripping the side of the bed and rocking back and forth, teeth gritted, sobbing, shaking with fear. He rubbed my head and kissed my hands and did some jedi mind trick that put me to sleep for 20 minutes, which bought them enough time to get things together and come get me for surgery. He had to have been petrified, he was also there when Avery was born, the last time I went under a knife and almost died. He never let on; his focus was all on me and on getting me through that few minutes.

I can never measure up to the lengths the man will go to when I need him. Because I so often don’t need him, I think at time it appears that we have kind of a friendly passionless partnership, and sometimes it feels that way too. The longer we’re together though, the more I realize how completely OK that is. Because when the shit hits the fan, this guy is down. And there is not much grosser than the post-partum period on a woman’s body, people. And my husband has been there to empty trash cans, hold my hair while I vomit, act as room service waiter and short order cook, and clean up my bathroom messes. And we’re not that kind of familiar, you know? I mean we’re not a family that discusses poop and bodily functions as a rule.

And yet my best friend is in this with me, and I would trade all the flowers and cards and smooches and spectacular dates and trinkets and gifts in the world for even just these last few months with my partner by my side.

Compromise? Sure, we both do it. Sometimes a LOT. Like when he’s arranging little metal tanks in plastic containers (he doesn’t even actually play with them! wtf?) and I find a way not to shriek and throw things.  Or when I shriek and throw things and he pretends that it’s normal and OK, and when we talk about the issue behind the throwing, the fact that I acted like a 4 year old doesn’t come up as an additional Thing We Have to Discuss.

Maybe we’re not each other’s dream mate. But I’m not dreaming anymore. This is real life and I truly could not imagine a world without him in my corner.

I guess  I’m saying that I don’t know if it’s about holding out for a certain set of qualities or characteristics, or about becoming more realistic with my expectations, or if it’s about building a foundation of friendship that makes a partner indispensable, or looking for that “omygodilovehim” spark (which we did have, also but it fades in and out), or what. I just know it started with a spark and it built on respect and admiration and intellectual stimulation, and progressed into passionate romance and mutual vulnerability and gentle sexual exploration, and blossomed into this huge oak tree of a partnership with all those things as heavy strong branches and we jump from branch to branch.