For eight and a half years, my nigh-saintly husband Eric has daily pledged to make my life full of smiles, and to take care of my every need. He has done a fine job. Really, the man has hardly let me lift a dainty finger.
Lately, though, things have changed. Whereas before he would hasten at my cry to rid my way of any vermin or insects—ESPECIALLY ROACHES, LIVE OR DEAD (we live in Houston, we got a lot of them, and they ain’t small)—I have become the chief roach remover of our household, patrolling the house at dawn and gathering their dead carcasses in a paper towel.
If our dogs fouled the house, Eric would take care of it. In his final months, this was a common occurrence with Cowboy. Layla is now following in her footsteps. But as often as not, it is me who mops and air freshens after she lets loose a tinkle lake for us to walk through.
And if we came upon a gate, Eric leapt from the vehicle to open it, drove through, and leapt out again to close it. This pattern we repeated each time we visited Nowheresville, or our youngest daughter’s cows at the FFA barn.
Until yesterday. Yesterday when we arrived at the FFA barn to feed the beasts in Susanne’s absence, Eric put the truck in park. I sat sweetly in my seat. He turned to me, and I smiled at him, happy in the sameness of my perfect little world. AND HE SAID, “Don’t just sit their on your BEEP princess, get out and open the gate.”
Well, of course I did as I was told. I wouldn’t have ever not except that he had always insisted that it gave him such pleasure to spoil and pamper me.
I can only hope this isn’t a sign of more changes to come, but I’m worried. Is the honeymoon over? Only time will tell.
Meanwhile, he tried to make up last night by taking me out on a painting date and letting me win the “worst picture” contest:
Sadly, that’s all I’ve got.