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My Fourth Child (a.k.a. My Husband)

I often jokingly state that I have four boys rather than three. Okay, I admit that I’m not joking. You see my husband, or fourth child, is often the instigator of derailing and degenerating conversations and behaviors. He is the Jedi master of foolery and my sons, his Padawans. It is an endless cycle of fart jokes and wrestling matches that pepper each day in my house, and I just do my best to dart behind a piece of furniture for safety or corral the shenanigans to some semblance of normalcy. 

In addition to the training of his young Jedi, my husband also takes great delight in planting boy-related items throughout the house, just to see how long it will take me to notice them. I swear, if my husband had his way the entire house would be decorated with Transformers. I constantly find figures infiltrating various nooks and crannies, some obvious and some cleverly hidden. I begin to think the house would look like Andy’s, from The 40-Year-Old Virgin, with posters and geeky figures on every surface and wall. It’s really quite terrifying. And my boys are no help at all, devolving into hysterics when I finally locate some item they claim their dad put there days ago. It’s like some nerdy Easter Egg hunt that I’m not even aware of, but I’m the one who’s supposed to find the golden egg, or rather the Optimus Prime. 

But I’ll gladly take all of his absurdity, because no one knows me better nor gives me what I need than my husband. You see, we’ve been together since high school. Yep, we’re one of those rare couples that have stood the test of time and with this comes a wonderful, shared history. If he’s reminiscing about some teenage adventure, I was likely there or know the all of the characters in his retelling. In essence, we went through the most challenging years of growth together, those angst-filled and rebellious chapters from teen to adult. Perhaps it was all of the trouble we got into that formed unbreakable bonds or maybe it was simply meant to be. 

Whatever the case, there is only one man who can make me happy by doing the following:  

When I’m having a tough day and text him a Pink Floyd reference which he finishes because he gets me: I want to go home, take off this uniform...

Finish movie quotes from my favorite flicks or shout out what film the quote is from

Pick up a bottle of my favorite, organic wine because it’s finally Friday and he thinks I deserve a glass or two 

Read my inappropriate thought bubbles and give me a look of approval 

Make some innuendo in the midst of a dinner conversation knowing the boys will totally miss it but I’ll be left giggling 

Totally support and encourage a day of laziness because he recognizes all the crap I do and wants to show his appreciation by giving me a day off

Laugh at my clumsiness while giving me a hug because whatever I’ve banged into is making something smart and will likely leave a bruise

Read my blog and book and give me honest feedback and unwavering support 

Tell me he loves me and thinks I’m beautiful, extra padding and all

So go ahead, hubby. Put Megatron on the mantle. I won’t snatch him off and grumble as I put him back in your office. Well, at least not for a few days. 

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