Surely by this point in the blog, over 400 posts, I’ve made it pretty clear that I am married to a real man.

He works for his family. He works hard and he works honestly and works without complaint, even when the work sucks, even when he is sick, even when he’d rather be elsewhere. He works.

He also plays. He throws the baseball with a wild-armed 5 year old daughter. He fishes in the cold off of the dock because the 6 year old son is determined the fish are hungry. He dances with the raucous red head and plays piano with the blonde-haired beauty. He walks the property helping the eldest determine the right place for a blind below the pasture. He takes an exhausted momma out, puts a Monster drink in her hands and says, “Let’s have fun.” And we do.

My Husband is a real man.

But he’s not the only real man left in the world. Even when it seems he is.

Real men sit at a kitchen bar eating chicken jalfrezi and reading “Slinky Scaly Snakes” with grade-schoolers. Real men play Connect Four, Cooties, Toy Story Memory, Checkers, Pictureka with multiple kids at once while ignoring the Monday Night Football game on the TV just a few feet away from them. And then long for a good game of Candy Land after. Real men aren’t afraid of being a kid when it’s time to be a kid.

I am grateful for the opportunity to host real men in our home.

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