The Stepford Husband

As I write this, my husband is happily strolling through the aisles of Acme, carefully composed grocery list in hand, dutifully bypassing any product for which he hasn’t clipped a coupon.

No, I’m not home sick on the couch. Nor did we have a wicked fight for which he’s atoning. Rather, I’m married to a singularly unique yet no longer rare creature—The Evolved Husband.

When we first started dating, I smiled bemusedly when he first offered to cook for me. “Aw,” I thought as he whipped up a delicious chicken parm, “this must be the ‘special occasion’ dish his mom taught him to impress girls with.”

Yet that chicken parm gave way to roast chicken with homemade gravy, sausage lasagna, salsa and guacamole from scratch, gourmet Saturday morning breakfasts (with my choice of fluffy blueberry pancakes or omelets with spicy home fries)…as I slowly realized that I’d hit the culinary jackpot with this guy, my burgeoning cooking skills took a backseat. (After all, I’m Irish, and we’re not exactly known for our prowess in the kitchen!)

Not only does he cook and do the grocery shopping, but he also vacuums, sweeps, mops, cleans out my car, takes the dog out, and does the dishes. He also takes equal care of the Teege—feeding, changing, bathing, and playing. This is on top of the typical “male” chores he carries out—yard work, painting, killing spiders, etc.

So what, you may ask, do I do, exactly?

Well, laundry. And boy, is there a lot of it. My biggest shock after getting married was how much laundry there suddenly was. Nick has never been a “wear and air” kind of guy—a sweatshirt worn for two hours, over an undershirt, is promptly deposited into the hamper. Throw a baby’s endless dirty clothes into the mix, and laundry is suddenly a Sisyphean task.

Cleaning the bathroom is another chore falling squarely on my shoulders. Early in our marriage, Nick remarked how glad he was that I “loved to do the bathroom.” Feeling guilty that this was not nearly as taxing as making dinner every night and dealing with the supermarket every weekend, I smiled sweetly and answered, “Oh honey, I don’t mind at all!” Thus, I sentenced myself to a lifetime of rubber gloves and Soft Scrub.

Oh, and I did go through nine months of pregnancy and a little event called childbirth.

Sure, I’m spoiled rotten. But I know that each task Nick does is out of love for us and the home we’ve created. A few days after our son was born, he braved the blizzard to shovel the car out of the snow so he could make yet another run to Target for diapers. As I watched him from the warmth of our living room, I thought to myself, “This man was born to be a husband and father.” He finds such joy in completing these seemingly mundane chores. It has certainly made my decision to return to work an easy one, knowing that he will happily shoulder the burden of homemaking with me.

Some prefer diamonds; some prefer pearls. I’ll take chicken parm any day.