I try not to tell other mothers too much about my husband. It would sound braggy and make them jealous and they would come after me with pitchforks, because Bear is legitimately the Best Husband and Dad of All Time. My dad always said I’d never find a man who’d vacuum like he does.
He was totally and completely wrong.
I do not cook. I have literally never cooked meat in my life that wasn’t bacon. And at this point, I’ve given up restaurants, because there is no point in paying for food that pales in comparison to the meals Bear cooks at home. Tonight, we had pork loin, celery slaw, and fennel and cauliflower. We do not buy salad dressing. He makes it. It’s better than the stuff you eat when you go out, because he uses mustard and spices and honey and whisks and talks about emulsion.
I also don’t know where most of the stuff in the kitchen goes, because he cleans it up. Did I mention he owns a muddler? And the other day, Manic Pixie Boy called him “Master of Meats”.
He remembers trash day and pays all the bills, because money scares the crap out of me.
He feeds the dogs.
Bear is also a master of Baby Origami. We don’t use all those expensive all-in-one-cloth diapers, or even fitteds, because I would ruin them in the washer. We use prefolds and flats. And Bear can fold flats better than any mama I know.
He also washes them.
He wrapped MP Boy for the first time ever in his Moby. It wasn’t me sticking him in the wrap. It was Bear.
And every single night, no matter how much his back hurts, he wraps up Manic Pixie Toddler and puts him to sleep. For that matter, he also puts Manic Pixie Boy to sleep. He does not see this as extraordinary.
He can put a baby in a rebozo, slip-knot and all. He does it in public. He also does not see this as extraordinary. The Hangover jokes sort of piss him off, but that’s because they’re unoriginal.
He can spot crappy wrap jobs. He was an Eagle Scout and critiques my knife skills, arbitrates which wounds require stitches, spots which injuries will lead to finger- or toenail loss, and assures me that no, Manic Pixie Toddler doesn’t need to go to the ER for a head injury. He also bites the kids’ fingernails.
Bear bought me a hammock for the backyard and lets me grow morning glories even though they take over everything. He makes model airplanes to hang from MP Boy’s ceiling. These include Darth Vader’s TIE fighter and the Millennium Falcon. He reads my blog posts and tells me when I spell Yo Gabba Gabba! characters’ names wrong.
The other day, our washer threw a brand-new error code in the middle of a diaper cycle. He looked it up, took the back of the washer apart, and fixed it. This took two hours.
I was napping at the time.
Dogs love him. Small children ask him for help on the playground. He relegated his Blatt’s Beer Fish signs to the office and hasn’t been to a concert in months.
Since I got pregnant with Manic Pixie Baby, due in November, I’ve been sick. Not like, a little sick. Hospital-trip-for-fluids sick, I-can’t-get-out-of-bed sick, holy-shit-I-can-suddenly-eat-get-me-a-large-fry-now sick. Bear has spent a good several months as pretty much a single parent, except with the added benefit of an invalid wife. It sucked, and continues to suck occasionally when I get barfy or miserable or exhausted. I sometimes sleep for three hours in the midday. He does not remark on this, other than to say that I need to lie down.
When I was really sick, he did all the laundry, all the childcare, cooked, cleaned, went to work, arranged help and babysitters, and joined my facebook groups so he could take the kids to playdates. He didn’t want the boys to miss their friends.
I don’t know what to say other than thank you. I love you. This is the life we chose.