Blessed is the Man

Blessed is the man who makes his wife fettuccine alfredo three nights in a row, from scratch, because it's the only thing she can tolerate eating.

Blessed is the man who checks the labels of every single food product she stuffs in her mouth, to protect her against bacteria, corn syrup, and other enemies of the body.

Blessed is the man who handles phone calls, emails, and other social niceties, when said wife just doesn't feel like being bothered.

Blessed is the man who trims his wife's toenails (because when you've been forbidden from bending your abdomen for two months, some areas of cleanliness need assistance).

Blessed is the man who cooks everything, cleans everything, handles the bills and the appointments, and still manages to cook his wife deviled eggs at 10:30pm on a Tuesday.

Blessed is the man who brushes and blow dries her hair because she is too exhausted, gets her toothbrush and pajamas, washes her smelly blankets, and fetches her chap-stick. 

He refuses thank-yous.  He requires no acknowledgement.  His only accepted payment is hugs and love.  The only person on the planet more blessed than he is his stinky, tired, bed-ridden wife.  She may be the luckiest lady on the planet. 

Fortunately I can now dry my own hair.  And I'm allowed to sit in the living room.  But I'm not sure he would let me even go so far as to trim my nails.  That is how far-reaching his love is for his wife.  And I promise I will remember all these moments at 3:30am on some dark and cold Tuesday when his crying child is covered in poop and vomit.  On that day, I'll remember the humbling moments of him drying my hair and trimming my nails, and I'll let him sleep.  And give him a kiss.