A Token of Thanks

Tomorrow is my wife’s birthday, and I still have to cram my way today to find something for her, something to show my appreciation for her love to me and our son. How am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a ready answer. I still have a lot of checking to do on my share of the project, think of something to buy after office hours, and steal a few moments to blog about these moments of my dilemma.

But I have a lot of time to think about how she completes everything missing in our humble home: her scolding me for not hanging my clothes in my allotted space, punching and pinching me when she finds the time and gives me a somewhat mischievous smile, and would readily interrupt my eating with her requests to give her a plateful of our meals instead of just getting it herself. And believe me, she is very conscious that I experience these in a regular basis because, as she tells me time and time again, that’s her way of showing her love to me. “If I don’t do this to you anymore, it means I don’t love you anymore,” she would say, and I believe her. In fact, I look forward for those times when she can’t because either she is  too busy or too tired to do them.

Aside from her tasks as a wife, nanny, and mommy, she has a great share of responsibility at school. Her wit, deep knowledge in psychology (she’s English Major not BS Psychology), Ph.D. degree and practical thinking propelled her to a principal’s status. On a daily basis, she would confront ballistic, proud, troubled, and confused parents. She would need to perform QA/QC (quality assurance/quality control) to their teachers regarding the UBD system (I wonder sometimes how she knows this new system by heart) of teaching from the teaching materials, topics and including the examination questions. Whew! Add to that the list the extracurricular activities of the school which ranges from press conferences, fieldtrips, and film viewings. And then again the visits to the division office and others she might have not been able to disclose to me.

I don’t have much of a crowd behind me and I don’t follow a lot either. Both of us will form our respective crowds. She would laugh at me and my jokes and punch lines which I think will bore others. She would discuss to me her views whether to refute my idea or to agree with it on almost any conversation we have – ranging from politics, current events, technical matters (yes, she understands bending moments and deflections!), religion and whatnots. And even when I come home late at night during some socialization, drinking sessions with drinking buddies, she tries her best not to sound like a mother scolding her erring son. She will then point out to me the things I missed because I came home late, just like my son searching for me until he is already asleep and tired of waiting, and the stories she would have told me immediately had I been there at the moment she comes home. And then I’d feel guilty.

She is a super wife and a super mom – a woman whose target is never less than excellence and yet who has a big heart for her family.

So what will I give her? I still can’t think of anything but I wish to find some token of thank you’s and love for our priceless member of the family…

Advertisements

Author: The Romantic Alpha

Aside from physical and intellectual strength, a man is also given a heart to feel and share love and value. Dive into the mind of the alpha, feel his heart beat, and let me carry you with my strong yet gentle hands. I'm continuously innovating myself to be a better man, husband, father, friend, and structural engineer. Love's not overrated. The world needs the true essence of which.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s