When my husband and I sat down with our pastor for our very first session of pre-marital counseling, my mind was a haze of white noise, interrupted only by tiny flashes of red-hot panic. There was so much happening in my small, spinning world at the time that I don’t think I had the executive functioning capacity to fully process much of what he was saying to us.
The one thing I do remember clearly from that meeting was our pastor leaning forward and saying, “The best marriages happen when both people think they married up.”
Damn, was he right.
Sorry. I always forget—no swearing when it comes to church things.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. Brian and I both have our strengths. But if we were to honestly lay out the pros and cons of each of us as human beings, my husband would walk away the clear winner—hands down. I know he’s probably reading this right now, and because we’ve known each other for nearly a decade, I can picture his exact expression as he silently disagrees with me.
Because he believes he married up, too.
Of course, I don’t always feel this way. I imagine it would be physically impossible to move through life with huge, dopey, Disney-princess eyes, gazing lovingly at your husband at all times. Because sometimes husbands do things that make you absolutely crazy (and yes, wives too), and suddenly you find yourself thinking…
He’s selfish.
I struggle to pull myself away from the endless minutiae that fill a mom’s day: scraping hardened food from the crevices of the dining room table, fishing Lego men out of the narrow half-foot gap between the washing machine and dryer, mashing cauliflower into a paste so unrecognizable my kids might believe it’s pizza crust—you know, normal mom stuff. My husband, however, does not seem particularly invested in any of this. While I’m sticking chewed Orbitz gum onto the end of a coat hanger to reach into the abyss of our laundry room, he might be found with his feet up on the couch, book in hand. He’s calmly ignoring our children’s rapid-fire questions about dinner and quietly sipping his favorite beer—the one I bought for him.
But…
When he finishes his chapter and looks up to set his beer on the coffee table, he’s completely recharged. He glances over at me and tells me I look pretty (and he’s right, if wild eyes, dirty clothes, and tangled hair are your thing). He asks if I need help with dinner. He gets milk for the kids and leads our family in prayer. When I mention I’d like to slip out to the gym, instead of muttering “Fine” under his breath (like I might), he cheerfully says, “Sure, hun!” He tackles the dishes, ushers the boys to their room, and happily plays basketball with them—complete with a booming announcer voice calling play-by-play for the entire game.
He selfishly takes care of himself so he can selflessly take care of us.
I married up.
He’s forgetful.
There’s a very real chance I could tell my husband something, write it on a Post-it, tape it to his forehead, and he’d still forget every word. I could hire a skywriter to announce a dinner date across the heavens, and he’d still call at 4:45 asking if we have plans. I could tattoo my coworkers’ names across my chest, and he’d still need reminders. So I sigh. I roll my eyes. I remind myself how organized I am, how dependable, how trustworthy.
But…
Then he’ll recall, in vivid detail, a phone conversation he had with his dad when we first started dating. Or he’ll animatedly tell anyone who will listen the story of how we met, or what it was like bringing our oldest home from the hospital. When our three-year-old does something adorable, he’ll look at me and say, “Don’t you remember when Oliver used to do that?” Sometimes I do. Often, I don’t—I’m usually thinking about the mountain of unmatched socks.
He forgets the little things. The daily things.
But he remembers what matters.
The things worth remembering.
I married up.
He’s brash.
I don’t leap headfirst into anything. I’m the kind of person who enters a pool carefully, pencil-style, holding my nose. My husband, on the other hand, cannonballs into the deep end with complete confidence. He’s a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy. He’s the man who quit what some would call a dream job shortly after we brought home our first baby, choosing instead to chase his passion. He’s the man who bought all the equipment to brew his own beer—in our bathtub, with that same newborn at home—and made exactly one batch. He’s the man who decided, with full certainty, that we were adopting before I was brave enough to say the words out loud.
But…
He has the optimism, grit, and He-Man-level chutzpah of an old-school Hollywood hero. The dreams I couldn’t even imagine for our family, he turns into reality. He pushes me to dream bigger, to set goals, to create a vision for my life, and to take chances. He lives out that old Mae West quote: “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”
So at night, when my selfish, forgetful, brash husband comes home from work and sets his bag on the counter—after I’ve asked him not to a thousand times—I’m reminded of something important.
I wildly outpunted my coverage.
I found my perfect person.
I married up.
