My husband is the strong one.
Physically, he’s the only one of us who can surfboard our toddler out of the park, while babywearing another and pushing a stroller without breaking a sweat.
There’s a reason why dads make that look effortless, because it is.
He’s better at changing diapers, I can’t make the kids hold still.
I sleep better at night, knowing he’s by my side.
He opens jars and kills spiders. Moves furniture and gets things from way up high.
And I’m grateful, not embarrassed.
I could squash my own bugs, but I don’t need to suffer to prove a point.
My husband is the strong one.
It doesn’t mean he’s the more important voice, doesn’t mean his word is final.
Acknowledging his strength doesn’t mean I’m weak.
I depend on my husband. I rely on him.
You can throw the word traditional around like it’s an insult, but our marriage is equal in all the places it needs to be.
I could be my own hero, but it feels good to be married to one too.
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This post originally appeared at I’m That Wife: Marriage & Motherhood, published with permission.
