Fan Girl

I met my husband nearly 16 years ago and from day one (ehh -ish), I knew that was it.

I fan girl-ed HARD in THE. MOST. EMBARASSING ways for that man. There are pictures that can confirm (see below).

Please don't ask me to elaborate. It wouldn't be pretty.

But I did.

He gut-punched me (figuratively--not literally). Took my life, turned it upside down, shook it like a snow globe, and I've never been the same.

On December twelfth 2009, I officially, before God and our family and friends and all the little church mice, agreed that my first name would sound better with his last name (thanks for the inspo, Luke Combs).

I vividly remember, in the moments right before the ceremony, after everyone else had gone up to their places and had begun to process in, sitting in the church basement with my personal attendants as they flipped my veil over my face, adjusted my dress, handed me my bouquet (and that quick shot of raspberry vodka from a flask I didn't ask questions about), and thinking, all my dreams are about to come true.

Now Imma be honest. That might have been setting the bar a little high. 

Don't get me wrong. He has shown up for me and our family in every way that matters. I love that man more than I care to admit or would honestly even like to some days, but real life isn't a fairy tale or a dream. It is real. Mostly guts and not a lot of glory. We like to gloss over that because it sounds better and honestly it writes better too, but I kind of like the "guts". I've learned a lot from the "guts" of marriage and it's given me some of my most cherished memories.

The birth of our children (and the aftermath). We're witnesses and participants to the greatest story on earth. But it's not pretty. There's blood and tissue and fluids and poop and vomit and hemorrhoids and varicose veins (too much? I went too far, didn't I) and a whole host of other things I won't even go into. You know what I'm talking about. It's just gross. Most people don't care because it's the birth of their baby. You're so googly eyed and in love, you'd suffer it all again in a heartbeat for that rush, that miracle, that feeling, that joy. But I remember looking at Brad after each baby (well not Bobby--he was a stinker and I was unconscious for his birth--), and the nurse would say some version of "Isn't this beautiful! Can you believe it? Isn't she a miracle!?"

And my husband, cowering in the corner in utter dismay, straight up looking like he was going to pass out or vomit, did not think it was glorious or beautiful or miraculous in the slightest. I mean okay, he did, but VERY tentatively.

(Actually, to this day, now that I think of it, his mom describes the shade of greenish/gray of his skin after my emergent C-section with Bobby, as the most unnatural hue she's ever witnessed.)

And I have never laughed so hard. It took him a few hours to  warm up to the "mess" of it all. He gets to the miracle of it differently than most.

It's somewhat amusing to me. Most women would not be amused if their husband hid in the corner during labor and delivery. 

For the birth of most of our children, I was induced in the evening, so labor and delivery was somewhat predictable/scheduled (as much as that's possible). He would drop me off at the hospital, see me settled, wait for the epidural to kick in, pepper the nurses with (really annoying) questions, and when it looked like I was going to be heading off to sleep, he'd say, "well I'm gonna go check into the hotel, call me when things pick up." You guys, this has NEVER dawned on me as strange or abnormal or even upsetting. It's just who he is. But as I get nostalgic and start to reminisce on things, it occurs to me that most people might find this odd or distressing. It makes me chuckle. Not even a blip, for me. Truly. It worked well for us. He doesn't like hospitals. He's not the type to "idle and wait" well. Do I dream about a husband that could flipping hold my hand (or my leg) when I push? Sure. But that's not Brad's forte. And it's okay because I could handle it. We fill the gaps for each other. I can't make gravy. Legit. It's awful. But my husband can. So I make the babies and he makes the gravy (there are no small roles). 😂

But that man will work all hours of the day and night in all kinds of weather and literally shit to take care of and provide for us. He'll take care of  and follow up on (and grumble about) whatever 898475987345th task I've very politely requested (or nagged about). One storm last winter, when I was all kinds of preggo and crabby, the power went out. So, he, even knowing that the power would likely come back on in a reasonable amount of time (less than an hour or so), (but likely choosing to save himself all kinds of grief and headache from his all kinds of preggo and crabby wife) threw his boots on, marched out into the snow and wind, started up the tractor, and turned on the generator. I have no idea what that whole process involves, but I'm lead to believe it's not all that easy. AND every time he does that, when the power revs back up and the lights flicker back on, my kids think he's the greatest superhero to ever have walked this planet. And I kind of do, too.

When he broke his femur--lots of "guts" there. The man can't handle anything related to doctors or hospitals or needles or ambulances and he had heaping amounts of all of it. And he was not patient, tolerant, or pleasant. It definitely was one of those times that leaned towards the worse of "for better or worse". It tested us and challenged us. What we knew, what our future might look like, how fragile we can be...Not pretty. But it also gave us some pretty cool moments too. He's never been one to be vulnerable or demonstrate any indication that he needs me. But during this time, maybe just a little, he did. And it was for sure a blessing to me. 

 

He knows me and I know him, and when things truly are dicey or distressing, for him or I, we know it. In all the ways, that I've ever needed him, he's been there, taking the risks I needed him to, when I needed it. 

I'm not trying to explain or defend our experiences. Our marriage belongs to us, alone, and we answer to each other and God. 

But during all of life's stresses including (now) COVID, in addition to the normal challenges of feeding beef cattle, farming, and living off the rise and fall of the market and trying to raise our children to be good, decent, Christian people, fostering our marriage has sometimes taken a back seat.

I think it's easy, though, to think that if your experiences don't measure up to what you thought they coulda shoulda woulda be/been or what you think other people think, that something is wrong or you failed or you're doomed. And it's just unbelievably not true.

The 'fairy tale' you're living, may not be what you always envisioned, but it could be so much better. So much more. More real. More satisfying. Heavier. Beefier (love us some beef). Deeper. Lighter. Stronger. Beautiful-er. 

It just really could be. Focus on the guts. What's real. What's solid and unshakeable and the rest really doesn't matter.

One more story before I go.

At different times throughout our marriage my husband has asked me what my favorite type of cow is. Now, most people don't have the pleasure of having a preference in this matter, but most are not married to Brad Williams. The first time he asked, I said "the gold ones".

He said, "you mean buckskins?"

"What's a buckskin?"

"Charolais/Red Angus Cross."

Hm. Learn something new and exciting every day as a cattleman's wife. I mean obviously a newbie at that time (and still-ish) but okay, yeah, buckskins.

And as I said, over the years, he'd occasionally ask as we were driving to a sale or at a sale or with cattle salesmen type people, what my favorite type of cow was.

And I'd say, "the gold ones" and he'd say, "buckskins, boys!" and so it went.

In the 16 years I've been around, we've never had buckskins. Brad's always been a black angus man. Red Angus here and there. Red or black baldies occasionally. Never charolais' and never buckskins.

It's our anniversary.

Guess what my husband bought? 

Yep.

Buckskins.

The gold ones.

A gold cow has to be the traditional
11th anniversary gift, I assume. Or a fatted calf? Either way.

Romantic, right!? Get you a man that buys you your favorite cows. I mean he's going to tell you it's only a coincidence and means nothing, but I know better. 

I'm telling you, just when I'm about to write that man off as hopeless, he sneaks these things in on me. Once every 10-15 years, he just sweeps me right off my feet.

Okay. Done being nostalgic. People are going to start getting jealous.

Love you, Brad D. 

Happy Anniversary. 

Thanks for being you. 

And loving me. 

And giving in to me. 

Always. 

And hanging in there when you'd like to kill me. 

I appreciate that you haven't. 

Really do. 

(see. fan-girl. 🙈)