Dumb Shit My Husband Does.

I need to preface this post by saying, I don't just love my husband. I LOVE him.

He is, WITHOUT A DOUBT, one of the most capable, talented and inspired people I know. I tell him often how he's clearly the smartest out of the two of us, not to mention the luckiest SOB I've ever met. Take him to a casino. Really. You won't be disappointed.

He's handy. He's handsome. And he's mine. I'm truly blessed to have him in my life.

That said...

There are things he does that simply defy logic -- things that leave him howling in pain and both of us scratching our heads in amazement.

Here's a brief list:

He is forever banging his head on things. Sure, he's tall and doesn't have as much clearance when it comes to doorways and hatchbacks, but if I have to watch him whack his head on the freezer door while reaching in the fridge for a root beer ONE MORE TIME, I think I'm going to lose my shit.

And he doesn't just whack it, say, "ouch" and move on. He whacks it HARD. So hard, in fact, that he'll fall to the floor, shout in pain, and instantly grow a ginormous goose egg. (It's quite a scene.) When he makes contact, we both see stars and little cartoon tweetie birds, circling his sore noggin.

The first time I saw him whack his head, I rushed to his side, prepared to provide first aid. The second through fortieth time, I did the same. Now when he whacks his skull, a nearly bi-monthly occurrence, I briefly glance over, look for blood, and then simply shake my head.

He burns his mouth on hot food at least once a week. Seriously. I know I should take it as a compliment that my cooking is so darn tasty, that despite the fact it's just been pulled from the oven and is visibly steaming, he crams a heaping forkful into his mouth and then winces in searing, scalding pain.

Again, if this happened only a few times in our marriage, I'd be more sympathetic, but he scalds his mouth damn-near weekly, if not more often. Everyone else on the planet knows to skim that first forkful off the top, blow gently and proceed cautiously. But that basic survival skill is truly lost on the guy. And I can't figure out why.

(And BTW, when the baby starts on solid food, there's no way I'm letting him heat and serve her anything I haven't temperature tested first. )

He's constantly biting his lips, tongue and cheeks. Again, an every once in a while thing isn't a big deal, but this happens so frequently - and with such startling, bloody results - I can barely sit through a meal with the guy.

The other day we went for dinner at a local restaurant, where he chomped into a sandwich, simultaneously biting through the tough, French bread and the tip of his tongue. I spent the rest of the meal watching him dab away blood in his dinner napkin.

So gross.

I've heard of people who are blessed with intelligence, but lack common sense. I had a college roommate like that. A talented architecture student, he regularly aced exams and dazzled his professors, but the guy couldn't work a washing machine, heat a can of Spaghetti O's or remember to pay rent to save his life.

Mark's not like that.

He's not absent minded or forgetful. He's quite the contrary. I guess he's just somewhat accident prone -- to the SAME accidents over and over.

We both joke about his inability to learn from these mishaps. We both marvel that he hasn't figured out to duck each time he unloads the back of the van. Maybe he's losing brain cells with all those lumps he's taking.

He calls himself "the dumbest smart guy in the world" and, while I wouldn't go that far, he does get pretty close sometimes.

Maybe I should've seen the signs. When I met him, his medicine cabinet was stocked with every kind of bandage conceivable. His band-aid supply included small, medium and large sizes, special shapes for fingertips and knuckles and even gigantic gauze bandages. (Mine had two kinds: Toy Story and Disney Princess.)

Too bad they don't make one for self-inflicted, nearly severed tongue injuries.

So as we anticipate the birth of our baby and pontificate on if she'll have his black hair or my brown eyes, I whisper silent prayers that she inherits my basic, innate survival skills -- skills that her dear father lacks.

His family legacy depends on it.