Many years ago I stood by my wife as we met our oldest son for the first time. We’re about to celebrate that big guy’s birthday and the joy he brings into our lives (a solid 82% of the time), but every year I’m reminded of seeing my wife become my absolute favorite person again and again.
She’s been my favorite person since we were 18 years old. She studied, read her text books, got involved in school. I played GoldenEye and wrote papers at 2am. She worked 12 hour days teaching while I sat in the basement and reset passwords. She is strong, motivated and cares deeply about whatever she touches. It’s admirable and being in proximity of her makes others want to try harder, do better, learn more and act fast.
She’s my favorite person not because of what she has driven me to achieve, but because she doesn’t give a fudging crumb about her influence. She does what she does because she wants to do it, anyone who doesn’t see that can fudge off. Only she doesn’t say fudge. She’s the most punk rock person I know.
She’s my favorite person because she makes a disgusted snort sound whenever I say a dumb pun.
She’s my favorite person because she is endlessly optimistic. Everything problem has a solution as far as she’s concerned.
She’s my favorite person because she trusts.
Because she loves.
Years ago my wife suggested we have a kid. She was fine doing to the heavy work of incubating and, I guess germinating(?) the tiny human. I took half an hour of a bio class in college, then dropped the course and changed it to a feudal Japan seminar. I have regrets. She’s my favorite person because she’s fearless and gentle, confident and endearing.
And now she’s teaching my kids these qualities. Essential qualities of being a good person.
She’s my favorite person because years ago a tiny human joined the world at her suggestion. That tiny human has the great opportunity to one day, hopefully, be just like his mom.