An Ode to My Husband

Nate told me the other day that he's been feeling under appreciated, which actually kind of surprised me because, just like I know that he knows thinks that I am the coolest fucking person on the planet and he appreciates the hell out of me, I thought he knew all the time that I feel the same way about him. 

Apparently, he's forgotten. And so I'm going to remind him.

Nate,

You're quite the guy. I really do know this, and I'm sorry if I don't tell you that all of the time but frankly, I don't want your head to get all big and then the next thing I know, you're screwing all the hobags and then tossing me aside for some chick who cooks all the time or something. So even though you're not really egotistical at all, I have to find balance with my compliments and effusive praise. Please try to understand.

You fold laundry like nobody's business. I love knowing that I can throw in a load and probably 60% of the time, I am not going to be the one to fold it and put it away. I love how you wield a vacuum, how you regularly run that bastard all over the carpet, showing those errant nail clippings and Brandon's food droppings whose bitch they really are. I love that not only do you know how to wash dishes AND empty the dishwasher, you actually do those things. All of the time. And you lovingly wipe down the kitchen counter (and the snot streaks on the couch) like a Spanish lover strokes his French whore.

Speaking of the kitchen, thanks for all the cooking that you do. Some days, if it weren't for you, I'd probably eat nothing better than the remainder of Connor's soggy cereal floating in room-temperature milk and a couple of cold chicken nuggets (HEY, they're still good cold! SO AMAZING!) from Brandon's plate at dinner. Just kidding, I would eat some veggies, too, but I do appreciate you being the chef. I'm just so not interested in having to cook every night. And while I know that you're secretly motivated to learn how to cook new entrees so you can watch Giada and her boobies, I'll take it. 

So thank you, Giada and boobs, for the good food that my husband learns how to cook from you. I'll take him getting menu ideas while staring at your chest and comely smile over having to be the one to cook every night ANY DAY. 

Thank you for letting me sleep in on your days off. I know you do it to spare your life, since we both know what a CRAZY ASS BITCH I turn into when I get tired, but I also know you do it because you're just a nice guy and you want to help me out. But really, I know why you want me well-rested. 

I know it's not easy being cheesy sleep-deprived and getting Ethan, and Connor on his preschool days, ready for school while trying to keep them quiet (an impossible task), and packing lunches that they're not even going to eat and then piling all of them into the car for the trip(s) to school. 

And I know it's so defeating to do all that and still have to come back home with a kid or two, since they're not ALL in school. Just a few more years, dude. A few more years - WE CAN SURVIVE THEM.

I love knowing that I can take off and leave the boys with you and not have to worry about coming home to utter chaos and half-neglected, starving children. You're such a hands-on dad. But I'm sorry if I don't tell you all the time what a great dad you are because frankly, I just kind of expect dads to be involved with their children - you know how I feel about that. There is really no excuse not to be. The 1950s ended A LONG TIME AGO. 

I appreciate how hard you work to provide for our family. You go out there and put your life on the line to help others, missing holidays and birthdays and other important events. We have health insurance, thanks to you. Thanks to your hard work and sacrifice, we can buy food for our boys to waste and drop all over the floor, creating yet another mess that half of the time, you'll be the one to sweep and mop up. 

Thank you for being the one to make the actual money while I try to forge my way into the writing world. I wish I could guarantee you that it will pay off someday, and pay off big, but I can't, because shockingly, I actually cannot predict the future. I do know that the whopping eight dollars and eleven cents I finally made from people accidentally actually clicking on the Zulily and ITT Tech ads on my blog will go a long way in securing our retirement. 

OR, it will buy a week's worth of milk for the boys. I'll take it.

You do all those things and so much more. You're a true champ, a warrior, a really fucking cool (and damn good-looking) guy who writes "I  heart cock" on pictures of me and who usually makes me laugh, when you actually decide to talk. I know I frequently drive you up the wall and probably definitely make you regret the day you met me and especially the day you married me, but you know, there have been days that I have wanted to bury you in the fucking backyard and let the gophers eat your rotting corpse.

But that's marriage. And I love you, Nathan T. to the fucking E., Nate D. O. double G. You're my craziness AND my sanity.

And I appreciate you. So stop whining about feeling under appreciated, because you most definitely are NOT.

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