Give this guy a medal.
For 23 years Basil has managed to stay married to me. It’s no picnic as those who know me can attest. I’m sarcastic, relentless … and have particular rules for things like how towels are folded.
Yet, I’ve not managed to run him off yet. He’s the best possible partner, whether it’s helping to move our daughter, Catherine, into her dorm at Hofstra, as we did yesterday, or finding a bit of adventure in the ordinary.
He never fails to support whatever hare-brained project I set off on.
These days, he’s a terrific sounding board as I closet myself upstairs conducting interviews and writing It’s Complicated: Secrets, Lies and the Adoptee’s Search for Self, my book about the adoptee experience. Despite having no personal experience with adoption beyond being married to an adoptee, he’s a good sport, never failing to read the latest raft of chapter drafts I thrust under his nose, and always offering keen feedback … and a hot meal to lure me away from the laptop.
He’s also my rock as I navigate reunions with both sides of my biological family, taking in stride that he now has three mothers-in-law and patiently helping me sort through the nature/nurture identity crisis I wasn’t prepared for.
He handles it all with grace, aplomb and a keen sense of humor. Clearly, I won the jackpot 23 years ago!
About those towels, though? I’ll be forever folding them the right way after him. And that’s quite alright with me.