My Blessed Husband

God bless my husband.

He's been as sick as I am -- even sicker sometimes -- all week and has dragged himself to work every single day.

He has come home every night exhausted, but with a smile for me and the boys. Somehow, he has mustered the strength to rumpus, play football and fight swords with them, to boot.

He hasn't complained that the house is a complete disaster due to my bare-minimum, horizontal parenting for the last week.

He expects no special treatment when ill; he doesn't mope around and complain like I do. You'd hardly know he was under the weather if you missed his hacking cough. He's been so cheery lately, I keep forgetting how sick he really is.

And yesterday was his birthday -- his 30th birthday. There was no cake. No party. No fanfare for him at home. I put a card in his lunch box, and he got to have apple pie and ice cream at work, but that's about it.

The minute we got the kids in bed last night, I turned into Crank-o-saurus Rex and refused to watch a DVD with him -- opting for an early bedtime instead. So he stayed up and watched. Alone. Without complaint. Because I am married to a veritable saint.