Some women hate laundry, but the chore I despise the most is cleaning the kitchen. Laundry can be finished and then ignored for a day or two. The kitchen gets dirty again the second you turn your back. I hate it, and so my kitchen is usually in a barely acceptable state of "not quite a health hazard."
These last few weeks have been difficult, for rather obvious reasons. What isn't so obvious is that they are coming along as the most recent in a series of difficult times, that have been following close on one another's heels ever since the beginning of August. So the miscarriage was just the latest in a Series of Unfortunate Events. But it was the hardest, and for a while there, I was really struggling.
I've been weepy and emotional (every man's favourite), and I have been making the Mad Scientist late for work because I've been sleeping to totally ridiculous hours. And I've barely done any school with the children for about three weeks now. And the housework (never under control) is slipping even further from my grasp, while meal planning has gone completely out the window.
Through all of the difficulties, which would surely make most men throw up their hands in despair and disgust, my sweet husband has loved me in the most tangible ways possible. He has given me space when I needed it, a shoulder to lean on when I needed to cry. He wept with me as our hopes for my pregnancy ended. He has watched the children so I could have a break, even more than he usually does. But the most tangible thing of all? He's been keeping the kitchen clean:
Now THAT is sexy!