Grant was a champion during my first pregnancy. While I laid on the couch and moaned about wanting to die after throwing up an ice cube, he was right there to offer me Ginger Ale and flip to Side B of Bridge Over Troubled Waters on the record player- for the millionth time. We got through my first trimester with Pursy like the well oiled machine we were. I was working full time so we had disposable income to use on things like acupressure wrist bands and 4 kinds of prenatal vitamins to see if there was a kind that I could keep down. I even called a maid service at one point to clean our house- with Grant's permission. He asked for nothing more then for me A. not to die and B. not to hate him for impregnating me.
This time around things are a little different. I am not able to lie on the couch for hours (or days) on end bemoaning my nausea and fatigue. I have a little 11 month old tornado of energy wanting me to follow her up the stairs for the 27th time in one hour. Even if I wanted to call a maid service to pick up the slack on housework, we wouldn't have the money for such a luxury. I am working 1-2 days/week and Grant is furiously trying to pound out a dissertation. He works 50-60 hours a week in order to make ends meet and try to finish up this long-awaited PhD. We want for nothing, but I have no idea if my brand of prenatals are making me sick or not because they are what I have- thus, they are what I will take.
And even working like crazy, stressing about completing the final chapter of his academic life and figuring out what job will be best (possibly for the next 30 years), and writing his dissertation- Grant finds the time to be an amazing husband and father. Every morning he goes and gets Pursy out of her crib, changes her first diaper of the day and chats with her about how her night was and if she has plans for the day. He tries to get home most nights by 7:30 so he can kiss her goodnight and say a prayer over her. He dresses her for church on Sunday mornings and makes sure we are on the same page as far as not letting her drop food off the side of her high chair. He dances with her in the living room on the rare evenings that he is able to relax for a few minutes before disappearing in the office to work until midnight.
And me- he still tells me every day that I am pretty and that I am doing a good job with our daughter. He thanks me for carrying another child, and makes sure that I am eating enough of whatever it is that I can keep down. He cares when I have identity crisis about being a stay at home Mom, and when I asked him if he would mind if Becki and I went away to a Bed and Breakfast for a night (she is 16 weeks pregnant) his immediate answer was "If you can wait until I defend my proposal, I think that would be great".
I can ask for nothing more. I married Superman.