I had it in mind to sit down and write a wonderful tribute to my husband tonight. After Runt was tucked snug into bed, Hubster retreated to the office for a bit of gaming fun, and I plopped myself in my chair to watch a little TV and tap, tap, tap my way to a happy, moving post one keystroke at a time.
First, though, I needed to go on a hunt for some photos.
I got myself lost in the depths of my computer for a while, growing increasingly sappy with each picture.
Before I even managed to make it to photos from the first Father’s Day we celebrated two years ago, my mush-fest was interrupted by persistent cries drifting down the hallway from Runt’s bedroom. Eventually, I gave in and got up to see what was going on. The moment I opened the door, I knew what was wrong. I turned on the light to investigate and found him covered in vomit. By blog post forgotten, I began to strip his bed and start a load of laundry while Hubster gave him a bath.
A bed full of fresh linens and one clean little boy later, we all climbed into our bed for a few minutes of cuddling before putting him back to bed. As we lay in the dark, Hubster quietly singing “Five Little Ducks,” I couldn’t help but think about just how lucky I am to be sharing this job of parenting with him. He is an everyday role model of the kind of man I hope my son will grow to be. Kind and caring. Silly and playful. And he doesn’t even bat an eye about diving straight into vomit clean-up patrol. Seriously. What more could a woman ask for in the man she chooses to raise a family with?