It just doesn’t seem right to start telling you about our life together without telling you about Bubs (aka Brian).
The first story to share is why I call him Bubs. One New Year’s we spent with Brian’s parents at Walt Disney World. One day, in a most Ellen-like way, I turned to Brian and told him that from here on out I would refer to him as Bubs. He wanted no piece of that and claimed he didn’t like the name at all. Of course, I completely ignored him, and now he has been Bubs for more than 3 years. And now, when I don’t call him Bubs, he gets all upset. It grew on him because it is who he is.
Bubs is a man of paradoxes. He is a genius epidemiologist (as shown by just winning the national award for Young Maternal Child Health Epidemiologist of the Year) and yet can’t make a bed (believe me, I’ve seen him try it, he is not play acting). He can fire someone without batting an eye, and yet fall to his knees in grief at the loss of a cat. He doesn’t suffer fools well, and yet laughs at my “blonde” moments without fail.
Bubs is a man with a strong conviction of what is right and wrong. Nothing drives him crazier than a double standard and he will always point out when he sees one occurring. He isn’t willing to accept the status quo but always wants to elevate the situation to a higher ethical level. He wants to do what is right and wants everyone else to do the same thing (his definition of “right” of course).
Bubs is a man of strength. He was strong enough to support me when I went through some pretty crazy moments during our quest for conception (don’t worry, you will get to read about those soon enough). He was strong enough to rub my back when I would wake him up in the middle of the night, sobbing over Kitty’s death. When you walk down a street, at night, in the middle of hell (also known as New York City to me) with Bubs, you aren’t afraid for two main reasons: 1) His sense of right would never let him abandon you, and 2) as the guy putting in our alarm said – “no one is going to purposely jump Brian.” Not to throw around hyperboles, but I know that if a tornado came and swept away our possessions, our house, and our car, that Bubs would be able to protect me just by holding me. There is something incredible sexy and giddy about that.
But most of all, Bubs is a man who loves me. I’m not really sure why he does. I’m full of faults – like I sometimes take my frustration out on him when he has nothing to do with it, or I get moody and impatient with his ability to handle my moods, and I’m not always as nice as I could be to him. I know he loves me because when I get frustrated at his inability to pick his clothes off the floor, he spends weeks doing this, just for me. Because it’s been months since I’ve had to put a toilet paper roll on the roll – he does this. He gave me a pedicure when my belly made it difficult for me to reach my feet, rubs lotion on my ever-expanding belly, and came back after the Great Bowl Fight of 2002 (long story, but basically it was our first fight, over a bowl, which was really a fight over my freaking out that someone was coming into my space – I may have brothers and sisters but I’m so much younger than them that I’m not sure my “sharing” gene was appropriately nurtured). He even loves me at the moments when I find myself not loveable.
And finally, Bubs is the type of man, who upon hearing a story about a guy who was having sex with someone at work, said (and I quote), “That’s not possible, he’s married.”
You can’t have him. He’s all mine.