Mat

This is the sort of man I married—the sort of man who gets up, uncomplaining, to the 5:30 alarm; who lets the chickens out and goes to work; who works ten hours, drives nearly two, and comes home, uncomplaining, to a raucous bunch of tired daughters; who feeds them, plays with them, cleans them, reads to them; who gathers eggs and weeds the garden, mends fences and turns compost, builds and fixes and cleans and works 'til dusk and then beyond; who kisses our babies good night and then washes the dishes, balances the checkbook, folds the laundry, and shuts the chickens in safe against the possums.

He doesn't do it all alone—I do what I can, and there are certainly days when part-time employment and full-time motherhood feel just as exhausting as his 40-hour work week—but he does do it all.

You've heard of the seven-year itch, I'm sure—the age at which a marriage is supposed to start feeling stale, when couples get a little antsy with each other, with monogamy, with the boredom of familiarity? Well, I can boldly attest that the opposite exists. The seven-year delight—the joy of having been committed for well past half a decade to the best possible mate, your one true love. Your best friend. Your better half.

On that note, I think that I, out of wifely obligation and out of love, will take my leave. I'll wash the dishes, and I'll fold the laundry, so that he won't have to—because, you know, he would.

M

p.s. In case you think he's just a workaholic, let me also tell you that my husband is funny, smart, multitalented, artistic, handsome, charming, kind, compassionate, sensible, intelligent, and interesting. The icing on the cake? He's damned sexy.