Someone's Baby

I am the first to admit I am easily irritated. On a given day, I find myself irritated by most of the people around me. And, unfortunately for my husband, he's around me the most.

I can't stand the sound of my husband, Norm, eating his cereal. My first fight with Norm was because he took a big slurp of my water without asking. I knock on the wall from our bedroom at 6am if Norm is unloading the dishwasher too loudly.

Some times Norm ignores me; other times he puts me in my place. That's probably why I married him.

When Norm and I became parents, I was surprised to find there was nothing that irritated me about our two children, Josie and Owen. From the very first moment I held my babies, I loved them unconditionally. Even when they did irritating things.

Josie snores so loud that I have, on several occasions, smacked my husband in bed because I thought it was him. Instead of going in and smacking her, I drift back to to sleep as though her snoring was a sweet symphony.

Owen loves mushy bananas. The thought of peeling a mushy banana let alone watching someone shove the whole thing in his mouth usually makes my skin crawl. But I watch Owen enjoy every last bite of his mushy bananas and even let him rub the remnants on my shoulder as I lift him out of his high chair.

There is nothing my Josie or Owen could ever do that would cause me a moment's irritation. There is nothing that would make me love them any less. In fact, with everything they do, good or bad, I love them more.

As Norm and I laid in bed one night watching television, he fell asleep on my shoulder and started snoring. For some reason I resisted my urge to forcefully shrug my shoulder and push him to his side of the bed. I stared at the 6'2" man next to me with his 40lb head resting peacefully on my numb arm.

It suddenly struck me that Norm is someone's baby too. Someone who is no longer here to love him like only a mother does. Norm's mom passed away 4 years ago, and even though he doesn't talk about it much, I know he misses her every minute of every day.

When Norm lost his mother, Joan, he lost the one person in the world who wholeheartedly accepted him without irritation and without expectations. His mom would gladly let Norm rest his heavy head on her arm. Joan would give anything to drift asleep listening to the sweet symphony of Norm's snoring.

I laid there for as long as I could. I thought about how I needed to appreciate Norm more. Accept him and all his meaningless faults with greater ease. Appreciate him for the great husband, friend and father that his wonderful mother raised him to be.

And then Norm's snoring started to sound like a concrete drill hammering against concrete. I gently shrugged my shoulder and rolled him over to the other side of the bed. I pulled up the covers and tucked him in.

I tried to fall asleep but his snoring was driving me crazy. I got an extra pillow and covered my exposed ear to quiet the irritating sounds.

Even though I love Norm more and more each day, he will always be someone else's baby. And no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to love him like the only his mother could.