Meet Kyle. He’s the bread (grain-free of course) to my coconut butter, the (palm) sugar in my coffee, the gleam in my eye, the money in my bank, and the pep in my step. We met one day long ago when he was still jail-bait and I was a single mom in a little Sunday gathering place called church. I thought he was mouth wateringly delicious until I found out that he had just graduated high school. My mouth suddenly parched. It didn’t stop the fates from bringing us together, and two years later, we were falling in love on a sunny Florida beach.
Kyle is the dad Styles never really had, and the husband I always prayed about. He is a phenomenal, though oft neurotic dad to our three children. We have our arguments like any couple: he drives me bonkers with his frugality and insistence that the house always be a sparkling palace, but we balance one another out nicely. Sorta like wine and cheese. I’m an old, aged fine wine and he’s a sharp young cheddar.
Kyle has a severe gluten allergy that went undiagnosed until we started eating like cavemen in October of 2011. He lived with daily IBS and horrible acne but swore it was from vegetables and vitamins. Right. The same man who swore he’d never stop eating pasta, will now never touch another bowl and he keeps this girl on her grain-free track. He’s more gung-ho about it than I am and I am eternally grateful.
He is called “The Workaholic” here because he is at work more than he is at home. We miss him constantly but we are so grateful that he works as hard as he does so that I can stay home and pursue my dream of being a starving artist.