His Wife

I often stop and think about those two little words: His. Wife.

I am his wife. Wife. He chose me over anyone else to spend the rest of his life with.

His wife.

On those days when I don’t feel beautiful enough on the outside. That I am convinced he wished he ended up with Kate Beckinsale instead of me. I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

On those days when I don’t feel good enough on the inside. I’m not funny enough, I’m not interesting enough, I’m not smart enough, I’m just not good enough. I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

On those days when I just know he could have found a better mother for his children. One who didn’t yell at bedtime, who played with them more, who gave more of herself all day every day. I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

On those days when the house is trashed, the laundry is a mountain and dinner is $5 pizza from Little Caesar’s, I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

On those days when I’m too tired, too bloated, too ugly, too mad, too upset, too whatever to give of myself in that way. I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

On those days when everything he is doing is driving me nuts. When I just want him to go away for a little bit, or stop chewing so loudly or to help me more. I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.

He chose me because he loves me more than anyone else. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He signed up for everything. He didn’t just sign up for perfect. He signed up for me. He knows me, everything about me, and still chose me to be his wife.

I remind myself of those two words.

His wife.