The first day that I had to go to work after our honeymoon I came home to a spaghetti dinner and a strawberry daiquiri made with rum that we stole from our hotel.
“Ohmygosh, you are the most awesome husband EVER!”
Seriously. I even called every woman I knew, “Do you know what my husband did?”
He was shaping up to be a pretty fantastic husband, and I, of course, would be a very fantastic wife.
The next day. The very next day. Mark and I had spent most of the evening apart, me at church and Mark at his karate class. We both got home at about 9, and crawled into bed around 10:30. I babbled on and on as we got ready for bed about work and the girls at church and whatever inane topic came to my head. I was unusually chatty that night.
“Sweetie?” he interrupted.
“I wanna hear everything, but can we talk in the kitchen? I need to find something to eat…”
Oh. my. goodness.
I had forgotten to feed my husband! I had not thought about him at all when I picked up McDonald’s for myself.
I was the worst wife. Ever.
And the worst part was that, at that point anyways, I was married to what I considered to be the best husband. Ever.
It was truly tragic.
“I didn’t feed you! You haven’t eaten?!? Ohmygoodnesss, I am sooo sorry! I will feed you! What do you want me to get?”
(Please notice that I cut right to going out at nearly 11:00 at night to buy my husband food because offering to cook for him at this point would just be funny hysterical.)
“Chill out. I’m just going to get a bowl of cereal. You’re fine. You’re not a bad wife. Please stop crying.”
Unfortunately, my awesome (and hungry) husband, ended up having to console me the rest of the night.
The wife gig was not turning out to be as easy as it appeared.