(OK, for starters, you don't pull out the diabetic card like that. Completely unfair.)
But, let's think rationally about this. Well, Ryan did help me peel sweet potatoes in the morning before heading out with the big kids for swimming lessons. When they got home, Mom and I and the girls went shopping. Meanwhile, he put the babes down for a nap, played ball with Nathan in the yard, and mowed the grass. We got home, I fed the babes, and in the balmy afternoon sun, he played more games with the kids. Then came dinner (which I made), baths (which he drew and I finished), and for the grand finale, he feel dead asleep, first on the couch, then prostrate on the bed (still wearing his baseball cap and Asics). Mom generously did the dream feed for him, and I roused him just enough to get him in bed sans shoes.
The evidence is yours to evaluate. But you might guess that I'm just a little bitter (incensed?) at the notion that somehow Ryan works like a dog, and he deserves more breaks. Breaks? Who gets breaks when you've got five kids? Everything is work. There seems to be no letting up for either of us. We both work all week long and continue working outside"normal business hours." It sounds like I resent it, and truth is, most days I don't. But somewhere, lurking inside me, is this apparent readiness to claw the eyes out of anyone who would suggest that somehow Ryan works harder than I do.
I've got my litany of reasons why not. Nursing two kids? Can I just stop there? So this morning I wake up a little bitter - at mom and however unfortunate, at Ryan, too. My mind turns on sentences and paragraphs that all begin with, "I. . ." or "My. . ." It's a dangerous place to be. It's a surefire road to resentment and bitterness. It's the "I" that crucifies marriage.
And so I pray and open the Scriptures this morning. It's a habit I just can't kick. And there, I look for a way out of the maze of "I" and "my."