Yes. It’s true.

I *can* survive parenting on my own, but the truth is, it took the two of us to become parents together and I hate doing it on my own.

It’s exhausting.

My husband *is* my other half. Not to be cheesy or cliché but… He completes me.

I don’t feel whole when he’s gone. My metaphorical cup empties quicker (my coffee cup too!).

I pine on every picture, text, or communication I get from him.


Am I weak without him? No, (not talking about my muscles here) but I do believe we are stronger together.

We help balance one another… I think.

Sometimes, I’m afraid to holler at somebody for something, because I know it’ll call attention to whatever and my other half will get distracted by it, and maybe even start hollering also. But when he’s away, sometimes I wish there was somebody else to do the hollering.

It is tough to always be consistent, unless it is consistently being a pushover with undisciplined, disrespectful children. It grows tiring very quickly to repeat myself with almost every child (we’ve had 8!).

And tiring to remind them after every short phone call with Daddy, “What’s this? That’s right. A phone. And how do we behave when someone is talking on it? Yes, quietly!”

He is my back-up for such instances and many more.

On the phone, those precious words from a distance which I hang on. My adult companion, whose hand I can’t touch at the time but I need.

We are a team. We made this family together and that is how we are supposed to raise them. With all it’s mess and noise (as children tend to have and be sometimes), this family is ours. His and mine.

My kids are part of my identity. Without him, I wouldn’t have them. Things would be very different in ways I can’t imagine.

That’s why.

My husband is my other half.