This is my husband.

I know, I know, it looks a little like Gene Simmons, but it’s not.  It’s Jac.

This man just headed out into the freezing rain (really, it’s raining and then freezing.  Not just me making an observation about what I think the temp is while it rains.  Is that clear?) in his short jammies to make a run to Sonic.  This man is going to be the death of me.

I am hurting.  This baby is tearing my body apart.  Jac thinks it will arrive tomorrow (he predicts this every night) and I feel like it should.  “It sure is low!” the Dr. cheerfully announced today.  Tell me something I didn’t know, pal.  Anyway, by the time we put the kiddos down, the long day had caught up with me and I struggled to get into bed.  Jac insisted that I rest, that he clean up the kitchen and, oh, could he get me anything? 

That’s why I love him.  He asks things like “What can I getcha?” when I’m lying with my eyes closed – no hinting needed.  I asked for some water and when he brought it back with the laptop, he said, “Would you like some Sonic ice?” 

Now, this is where things get interesting.  I thought he was asking because he was 1. being nice 2. loving me 3. reading my unknown-to-me thoughts as I do so love Sonic ice but had not had it in mind.  Before I could answer, he was rubbing his stomach and grinning with embarrassment.

“Because I could really go for some fried cheese curds!”

I laughed.  HARD.  Nearly wet my pants, which, let me tell you, at this stage in the pregnancy game with a large baby crushing and pushing on things and my hearty laugh, is not very difficult.  On top of my own amusement, Jac began to make a heart beating sound and then collapsed in a faux heartattack.  Bladder control lost.

When I could finally breathe again, he looked up, suddenly resurected and asked, “Well, would you like some ice?”

“Sure, if you’d like. . .”

“Are you trying to kill me?!” he squeaked.

Sick, passive-aggressive man.

He’s just returned with a giant lime-ade with loads of ice for me and a plate heaped with nacho cheese, potato oles and sopapilla bites (fried cheese curds must wait – Dairy Queen was closed.).  “Eat to your heart’s content!” he announced with a flourish over the plate of saturated fat. 

You see what I mean?