I love my husband. LOVE HIM.
But there are times when he thinks like a man.
I guess this is a good thing. I mean, it’s nice that he thinks like a man when, say, for instance, Sarah doesn’t know that potato peels CAN’T go down the garbage disposal the day of Thanksgiving when she’s hosting dinner at her house and a replacement of the elbow joint is in order because PASTE OF THE POTATO VARIETY abounds in the sink.
It’s nice that he thinks like a man where we have an issue with someone, or there’s a personality conflict, or whatever, and he’s all Let’s just be adults and move on. Sometimes he wants to hug it out or whatever, but for the most part, he’s very guyish about us all stepping up and moving on.
It’s nice that he thinks like a man when we’re cleaning house, because he can empty all of the poo containers in the house and I don’t even have to ask. It’s like, magically, the Diaper Champ, litter box, trash cans, and any other stinky place has been wiped clean by little elves and sprayed down with Lysol. Ahhhh.
But clothing my child? MY LORD, HE THINKS LIKE A MAN.
Let’s see the evidence, shall we?
Here is my precious child at his (re)scheduled doctor’s appointment. What you may not know is that at his last doctor’s appointment, he was a breath away from a breathing tube or some pneumonia type crap or who knows what; it all ends with BEST MOTHER EVER for not noticing that my child was dying.
He is better now. Moving on.
I told Bryan that it was his turn to visit the doc, since I’ve done the last few. When I left this morning, I thought all was well. I thought it was okay to leave.
OHMYGOD, I WAS WRONG.
Look at that! My husband.. oh, my husband.. I do love him. I do.
But, y’all, when I die, please do not let him pick out the outfit I’m buried in.