I keep wanting to write something about my husband. To do him some sort of justice. To explain that he has saved my life a million times over. To talk about how much creativity he has, you can smell it on him. That he is a true genius.
That I see how internally frustrated he gets with himself, nearly everyday, that there is a block in his brain that stops it all from bursting forth. That I wish he truly believed me when I tell him I am proud. I want to protect him furiously from every ass hole that calls him a loser that is a waste to society because he’s on disability.
He is the most patient man I have ever met. He will talk quietly to a child and explain the same thing over and over. He will answer every question, he will try and solve every problem on this earth if he could live long enough to do it. That he’s a survivor of brutal physical beatings and even worse emotional trauma. That he has forgiven so much. That he has Aspergers and has overcome all the stereotypes.  He is SO FULL of love. He is an amazing teacher that can invent games on the spot to help teach a child how to do math in their head. He had a severe speech impediment and was brutally humiliated because of it.  But he grew out of it, and is quick to tell other young boys that he outgrew his quicker because of adopting different kinds of accents.  He is eternally faithful.
He is a great writer,  and he will tell you it is because of pen and paper games, and still spends a lot of time working on creating the best game system and world. And if he could “get rich” doing anything. It would be that.
He doesn’t have to be a corporate genius.
This is enough.
He is enough.
Just like this, and he is going to be the best damn father.
And it doesn’t matter if deadlines freak him out. Or that he gets overwhelmed by things that have too many steps. Or can get hyper focused about certain subjects.
Because if that, is all the problems we have. We are damn lucky.

I am lucky.