As we walk through the airport, I look at the man walking in front of me. That is not the man I married.
The man I married would have been lounged somewhere, relaxing with his feet up, checking the hockey scores, without a care in the world.
This man was not lounged, and definitely not relaxing.
How could he be relaxed? He was making his way through a giant international airport, carrying a toddler in one arm and an over-stuffed Dora backpack in the other. He had a pink bib hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans and even though a trip to the washroom would mean no time for a coffee, he was searching frantically for a bathroom to appease his newly potty trained toddler. She had loudly declared to him, and everyone else within ear shot that she had to pee.
As I lagged behind with a baby strapped to my chest, I took a look at the duo in front of me.
It was obvious: He was a good Dad. My heart wanted to burst open with love. For both of them.
That man walking in front of me was far from the man I married. He was far better.
He had morphed from a solo being to the keeper of our family. We were “his girls.”
When I married him I always knew I wanted a family, but it was someplace off in the distance. We were both yuppies, living together, but with very much, two separate lives. Thoughts of kids weren’t on our mind.
When our status eventually changed from ‘DINKS’ to ‘Oh, we’ve got kids all right,’ there wasn’t much about our lives that was left separate. Our relationship solidified in a way we never expected.
We became a family.
I watch my husband take care of our daughters and my love grows for them all with each giggle I hear in our house.
He may make their ponytails lopsided, put them in mismatched pyjamas, and never give them a vegetable, but he loves his family, and I love that.