My husband cracks me up. Really. Lately the boys attack him when he comes into the house. Attack as in jump on his back the second he sits down. I look over and there is one on his head and another draped across his back.
He does his best to complete his little end-of-day rituals before they pounce, but I often find him still in his work slacks trying to pry his shoes off before someone leaves a huge mud footprint on his pants. I'm sure I should be running interference for just a few minutes more, but occasionally I am too busy sitting in the corner repeating the phrase "I'm going to my happy place, I'm going to my happy place."
My husband cracks me up because the man has no fear of these children. He will take them anywhere at anytime. Dinner time passed 90 minutes ago? He'll still take them to a restaurant for dinner. Sure the little one will start eating a cloth napkin and the older one will try to find food under the table while we are waiting for our order, but my husband's arms just keep moving. Pulling this one out from under here, pulling this one off of this ledge.
All he has talked about for a month is taking the kids to the children's museum. He couldn't wait to go. The man couldn't wait to go to the children's museum--on a weekend. I'll admit that I asked him if he had lost what was left of his mind. In reality, my husband was excited about the prospect of spending an afternoon showing his boys all of these awesome scientific displays that will make their little brains want to explode at the end of the day with exhaustion.
He'll put up with the chasing and corralling and yelling for attention to share this treat with them. And as a very pregnant woman, I cannot think of anything I would rather have them do on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Without me.