He.

These past five days have been a whirlwind. My mother is in the process of moving 6,000 square feet of home furnishings from storage in the desert, up to storage in Big Bear. The divorce is ugly. It's uglier than anything I've ever seen, and I'm stuck right in the middle of it, mediating my (at times) childish parents. (Sorry mom and dad). As a result of this, I've had my five brothers and sisters staying with me for five days. The house is a mess, a complete disaster. The food is quickly diminishing, there is a TV blaring constantly, and the complaining never ceases. It's a clash of parenting styles like you wouldn't believe. I swear these kids are going to hate me and Scott by the time they go home. You see, we have rules, and a set bedtime, and we make them drink freshly juiced apples in the morning (poor things). Yesterday I came down with a high fever, a 24 hour bug that confined me to bed. A train had come into my house, and hit me. Bad timing. 

Through all of this, one thing has remained the "constant", the unwavering pillar of "No, you won't do that, say that, wear that, watch that in my house". My Hubby is one tough cookie.

He's strong. He let's me lean on him when life is tough, and I'm a mess. The messiness has been prevailing lately.  

He is warm and hysterical. He's quirky when he's uncomfortable and on occasion, let's me dress him. 

He lights my fire, everyday.

At the end of it all, he takes me by the hand all reassures me that it will all be OK. I couldn't be more grateful for him, for the man he is, for the father he is and for every moment we spend together as a family.