Because It's Easier Than Walking Across Hot Coals

Y'all.

Y'all.

Can I share openly and honestly for a few minutes? Because I feel the need to clear the Love Well air, lest some lightning strike my blog.

Yes, my husband is sweet. He's a gifted writer and a wonderful man whom I fall more in love with each day. He's a great father, an intellectual force, a leader among peoples and darn good-looking to boot.

But. But.

That comment yesterday? The one that made y'all swoon? It came from a guilty heart. Consider it penance. Because while he ended his night at the computer, meekly composing a comment worthy of a Hallmark contract, he spent the hours prior to that comment mocking me, "his dear little Heffalump."

Oh yes. 'Tis true.

Let me set the scene. We had just finished dinner. I was exhausted and operating in a mental fog. (Did I mention I did nothing but sit yesterday?) On the counter sat a new package of Starbucks Sumatra coffee beans, an early Christmas present from my parents who came to see us over the weekend.

Seeing as he's the barista in our family, I said to him, "I can take these to Starbucks this week and have them ground. What kind of coffee do we need? French press? Regular?"

With a completely straight face, he answered, "Why don't you have them ground for decaf?"

Puzzled, I cocked my head to one side like a confused puppy and said, "Really? Have we gone through that much decaf lately?"

It was then I saw The Look on his face. Now, you have to understand, my husband is an expert liar. Expert. Just last year, he convinced an entire group of professionals that he had taken Angelina Jolie to the prom in high school, which is a story for another time. It's taken me 15 years to learn his tells.

So when I saw The Look, I knew he was lying about something. But the fog was so thick, I couldn't figure out what he was up to.

"You're lying," I said to him. "But I don't understand...."

And then the clouds parted, and I heard again the words "ground for decaf."

Ahhhh. Yes. Well then.

And lo, the smirk stayed on his face until bedtime, when he read my post and started to feel the prick of the Holy Spirit in his soul.

So the comment? Consider it a reparation -- a sweet reparation, perhaps, but that's only because he felt so darn guilty for picking on a pregnant woman whose gray matter is being systematically absorbed by his own daughter's placenta.

That, as Paul Harvey would say, is the rest of the story.

And now, I'm off to bed, where I think a little back-rubbing will be in order.

The comment was good -- but not that good.