When he reminds you why you said yes …

Mr Bee has snapped his achilles and is now in a cast for ten weeks. And he snapped it not running to save Baby Bee from a house fire. Or leaping to his defence before a raging lion. Mr Bee tore his tendon playing Old Man Football. The sort of football where he and his equally aging friends meet up for half-an-hour a week at the local leisure centre and call it a ‘fitness regime’. The sort of football forty year old men play thinking they’re still twenty-five. THAT sort of football.

In those first few days on crutches Mr Bee’s ability to care for his son was reduced to sitting in a chair and feeding him. It was like having a nan in the house, only with less baking. And it was hard on him – Mr Bee has never shirked from childcare. Not once. He may need prompting. He may fall asleep five minutes before he’s supposed to do a dream feed and wake up an hour later asking if he’s been fed. He may tune out the screaming from the monitor while I’m in the shower. But when Mr Bee is asked, or when Mr Bee is given specific repeat duties, he does them. Sometimes late, but always done. He even volunteered (sort of) for night feeds. He is, without doubt, a really good dad.

Mr Bee is also a really good problem solver – it’s his job as a structural engineer. He’s found it really hard not being able to help me out, especially as we had such a good system and also needs care himself. He’s not done what I did when I was pregnant and useless which was retire to the sofa around week 34 demanding food, attention and the remote control like Jabba the Hutt.

Today I have to go to the osteopath and it falls during Baby Bee’s nap time. If Mr Bee is set up in a room with Baby Bee and his accoutrements close to hand, we’re in business. When Mr Bee needs to carry Baby Bee, we are not. He just cannot carry him with his crutches – it’s physically impossible.

Until this morning. When this happens. Look at this little hero.



He did a couple of goes on the stairs until I felt almost certain he wouldn’t squish him, but it works really well.  It can’t be comfy as his good leg’s really feeling the strain of not having a functioning partner (I feel you Left Leg) but he totally manned-up so that I could go out and leave them alone and not be shitting it that I was going to come back to carnage.

Instead, I came home to this:


And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I married him.




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