Disclaimer: He’s my boyfriend

I still prefer the term boyfriend. It sheds a “young love” aura on our relationship that keeps us genuinely in love. I despise the term “significant other”. It casts shadows on relationships that make you see that significant person in a new, dim light.

But “boyfriend” does not seem to imply to most people that we have been committed to each other for seven years and that he is indeed the father of my children, all 3 of them. Nor does it suggest that we all live together in one beautiful, love filled home. Instead, it evokes many questions. I’ve answered those questions for many years now. I won’t be doing it again here.

Instead, I simply wish to clarify that the poor man who has the occasional “pissed of girlfriend/lunatic mother of his children” rant posted on the world–wide- web in his honor is my boyfriend, my parental teammate, my love.

He works very hard to provide us with a beautiful life. He is kind and generous, and not because I require and demand so much to be happy and if I’m not happy he’s not going to be happy, but because he loves me.

Sometimes we both forget how hard the other one is working to keep our life in balance. Sometimes I secretly curse him because he gets to leave the house everyday to go to work. Sometimes he secretly curses me for getting to stay home with our children all day. Most of the time, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sometimes, we both feel unappreciated. Most of the time, we can’t find the words to tell the other how very thankful we are for everything they do.

Sometimes, we both feel overworked. Most of the time, he inspires me to try harder, and I inspire him to stop and smell the roses.

Sometimes I annoy him with my aloofness, like when I forget to pay a bill or he asks me when I last checked my oil and I say “I’ve never checked my oil. Am I supposed to check my oil?” Most of the time he considers it part of my charm (I hope).

Sometimes he infuriates me with his ability to tune out or children, like when Leo has been asking (whining)for a bowl of cereal nonstop for 15 minutes and he is standing in the kitchen but does not seem to hear the question (whining) that I can hear all the way upstairs. Most of the time I am just jealous that I don’t have that power.

He is my boyfriend; the perfectly imperfect patriarch of our perfectly imperfect clan, my fourth muse.