"Mooooooom, I poooooooed!" echoes through our house all the way up to my bed, where I've beached myself in agony. I bet my man wasn't counting on this when he stuttered out, "In sickness and in health" about 10 years ago.
I hear his steady steps head toward the bathroom.
After my first birth, I came down with a magnificent combination of ailments. While non-life-threatening, they altered our family dynamic to a lesser man's ultimate nightmare.
I am frequently bed ridden in pain or stuck in the bathroom, which is super inconvenient when it comes to my 2.5 year old launching himself down a flight of stairs face first.
Enter Mark—my heart—manly man of daytime commercial banking magic, and evening superhero of laundry, dishes, diaper changes, and ball hockey games (and sufficient wife spoiling/bedroom concierge service).
He is a stoic, quiet soul, full of enough strength and love for both of us, when I'm ill. He raises our three boys in concert with my feminist values, you see, because he is quietly carrying that banner too. Just don't tell him I said that.
He is single handedly teaching my boys to be caring towards their future partners. Free no-strings-attached love that cannot be preached, and only ever be modeled. He alone is the reason that my 7-year-old will make me lunch and my 5-year-old will cover me in his favourite cowboy blanket, while discussing who will go first in massaging my back. Ahhh, Heaven!
He is why my boys will grow to be kind, loving, gentle men, with healthy priorities in an oft-twisted society.
And mamas? My boys will be allowed to date in 9, 11, and 13 years, respectively. You can send your thank you e-mails directly to Mark.
I promise I'll make him read them. It's one of the few things he actually sucks at.
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