Sometimes, Baby Daddy gets in a funk.

(I know!  Weird, right?  He’s so awesome, sometimes I forget he’s human.)

A couple things happen when he’s in a funk.  Physical affection drops reeeeeally low and his conversation basically dwindles to one word grunts.

(But this post isn’t about him.  It’s about me.  It’s always about me, me, me.)

I’m a very spoiled wife who is very accustomed to lots of hand holding, squeezes, and sloppy kisses, as well as endless compliments, long conversations and a million I-love-you’s every day.  So when I don’t receive my daily quota, things start to get a little weird around here.

Oh, at first it’s okay.  I realize he’s probably just tired, or stressed about something with work, or thinking about something in particular.  I settle in to patiently wait till he’s ready to talk or shrug it off, which usually happens relatively soon.

Every once in a while, though, the funk drags on.

When I feel even a little rejection from anyone, I withdraw.   This is even more true in regards to those I love the most, and most particularly my husband.  Any distance between us stings a bit too much, and I back away.  Soon, my little pulling back leads to cold remoteness in the name of self-protection, as a little niggle of doubt in the quiet corners of my heart becomes a silent scream.

The problem is, withdrawal is not a good defense against hurt.  It’s not as if the barriers I put up actually prevent me from hurting more.  They also end up escalating the situation because in building up barricades, I end up hurting him in return.

After the tears have flowed, the I’m-sorry’s whispered, and his arms are around me again, I always wish I had gone about things differently.  I wish I had continued to trust that he absolutely still loved me even when I didn’t feel it.  I wish that I had continued to act in love, even though he didn’t “deserve” it.  I wish I hadn’t responded so selfishly.  I wish I hadn’t allowed emotions to dictate reality.

Relationships are messy that way, especially the really good ones.

I guess the good thing about that is it teaches me much about another lover, the Lover of my Soul.  When unexpected hardships come, things that aren’t fair, or aren’t right, I want to stomp my foot and yell at God, “Don’t you care?!  Aren’t you listening?  Don’t you love me?  Do you even hear me?!”

His love and his promises are written out in black and white for me to read over and over, whenever I want. How ridiculous it must seem to him when I question his devotion, when he bears the evidence on his hands.

It’s not really about not having an easy, problem-free life.

It’s about faith in the love that carries me through them.