Why I Call Him Superman

My husband is tired. He’s had the most packed season of his career, having been working basically non-stop since early Spring and there’s not really a break until November. (woot woot! beach vacation in November!) Which is great! Don’t get me wrong; we love that he has work lined up. We really do love that. But he is tired.

He is also sore. Some days out at the studio, he and ‘the fellas’ will play baseball or throw a frisbee for a while. In the past couple of weeks during aforementioned game time at work, he has sliced and bruised his bicep by falling on a wire fence thing (funny story about this: when someone asked him how he cut his arm, he said, “I just made a muscle and it ripped open” which still really makes me laugh,) he’s fallen and bruised or cracked a rib, he’s been attacked by a swarm of bees and stung thrice, and who knows what else that he just hasn’t been awake enough to tell me about.

And in his sweet, sore tiredness last night, he made me a light-box. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?
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