Scott McHott

I have slowly collected every single pillow in our bedroom, in order to maintain a tolerable level of comfort while I heal.
He has let me have them all, without complaint.

I have needed help getting out of bed at 2 in the morning, to get to the bathroom.
He has awakened from dead sleep, to lift me up, without complaint.

I have required ice packs and thousands of gallons of water to drink.
He has brought me all of it, without complaint.

I haven't been able to wash a dish, a load of laundry, or clean up any of the filth I have created during the recovery process.
He has taken care of it all, without complaint.

While I've been unable to reach my feet, he's prepared adorable little baths for them, immersing my dirty toes into Epsom salts and Dr. Bronner's, without so much as a grumble, while I sit back in my chair, surrounded by all of his pillows like the queen of the world.

When I am irrational, needlessly emotional, and pointlessly crying, he is there.  He is patient and understanding.  He reminds me, "you've been thru a lot."

When my family drops the ball, or just behaves in that asshole way that family members sometimes do,  he is there to reassure me.  

He has managed two children, two jobs, a messy house and an overrun garden, and a recuperating, needy wife, all without complaint.  And today, he did all those things during a migraine.

There really is no point to writing all of this, other than to brag.  My husband is a goddamned rock-star.   How he manages to do all this fantastic stuff while still maintaining porn-star hotness is a mystery.
Pretty sure I've nabbed the unicorn of husbands.  Fuck yeah.