Dear Men,

Sometimes being a good husband means man-ing up and taking the baby for the day while the wife goes to the emergency room for 7 hours.

Thanks,

A friend.

This was our Sunday.  Apparently on Friday I came down with the cold my son had, which progressed into what I thought might be the flu, which progressed into oh-my-god-i-can’t-breathe-i’m-going-to-die.  After 2 days of feeling like I was suffocating (not being able to breathe fully), I got so lightheaded that I immediately became paranoid about little T in my belly not getting enough oxygen either.  He hasn’t been moving around as much, and added to the fact that I felt that I was going to die because I couldn’t breathe and felt like butt, I actually became worried that little T would *really* die because of me.  So I called my doctor and since it was Sunday, he had me go to the hospital.

Can I just say that was the most relaxing experience ever?  Seriously.  I laid in a hospital bed for hours watching the Food Network with an IV drip in my arm.  I mean, it was the most relaxing experience I have had in a long, long time.  They even brought me a sandwich and juice in bed (!!!!).

(Ad now all you child-less folk out there are reminding yourselves to get a refill of your birth control…)

We had had plans to meet up with friends of ours at the beach, so my husband took the baby to the beach, then brought him home and put him to sleep.  Then he took him to visit my parents for a bit (they’ve been pleading to see him before we leave town), and then took him to meet me and my aunts for dinner.

I have to say, my husband was sort of a rockstar in my book on Sunday.

Not because he shouldn’t have done any of those things – on the contrary, we live in a sexism free world (hah!!) in which men and women are able to be both domestic and professional.  Not because he’s a man and shouldn’t be burdened with the baby all day without (barely) any help from me at all.  Not because he played at single-fatherhood all day – because single fathers are just as amazing-beans as single mothers.

Nope.  My husband is a stud because he didn’t complain about any of it.

Especially since part of it was doing things for me that I didn’t want to do myself…i.e. see my parents.  Want to know why else my husband is a stud?  Because he told me to stop body-snarking on myself, and that he wouldn’t allow me to hurl insults at my giant body while pregnant.  He quit drinking until I’m ready to drink again (which for someone who’s job it is to taste wine was very, very difficult to do professionally).  He bought me 4 half gallons of rocky-road ice cream, then promptly killed the remaining ice cream when we found out I’m borderline gestational diabetic (thank goodness I’m not, but I still have to watch my carb and sugar intake).  He’s a stud, in sickness and in health.  I love him.

You know, I started this blog post intending on reminding people of the importance of not letting yourself become dehydrated (yay me!), and ended up segueing into a love note to my husband.  Ah discordant blog posts.  Don’t we love them.