The Good Husband  

I have a confession to make.

DH is a better husband than I am a wife.

I don't like to admit it, especially not out loud, but it's true.

DH is patient; he can listen to me drone on and on and on about the hemorrhoids that just haven't gone away since Baby C's birth and not even bat an eye. He's compassionate; he engages me in conversation about said hemorrhoids, nodding his head with sympathy and offering constructive advice when appropriate. And he's engaged; he's even offered to make a run to the drug store to buy me more Tucks pads.

But it doesn't stop there, although I wish it did.

My husband cooks all the meals in our house; yup, every last one. He often jokes that if cooking were left up to me, our family would subsist on simple pasta, pierogies and sandwiches. Instead, he delights our taste buds with teriyaki ginger pork tenderloin, chicken & dumplings and several varieties of the heartiest chili.

He does his own laundry too, and sometimes, he'll throw a load of my clothes in the wash with his. He's only destroyed one of my shirts in the past year -- a nautical-themed striped shirt I got at Banana Republic, back when I could afford to shop there -- when one of Baby C's red onesies accidentally got into the washing machine. He folds his laundry, too.

He changes diapers without complaint.

He spontaneously rubs my shoulders while I'm working on the computer.

He vacuums.

All of these wonderful personality traits and helpful chores make him pretty ideal... and therein lies the problem.

Because when your husband seems -- by all outward appearances -- to be fairly perfect, your friends don't let you complain about him. Instead, they try to defend him. For example, when I recently told my girlfriend about DH's penchant for completely messing up the kitchen while cooking, she retorted, "Yeah, but at least he cooks. My husband never..."

I guess beggars can't be choosers, but...

No husband can be perfect, can he?

Geez, I hope not.