Every Pregnant Girl Needs A Jake Yeager

My husband is the best. I mean, I know (hope) every woman thinks that, but I feel a little extra blessed. I get nightly foot massages, and on more than one occasion he has fallen asleep rubbing my back. I catch him on the kid's section of Pinterest, and he spent far too much time analyzing what shade of pink her nursery should be. He raced the strollers around the isles of Buy Buy Baby, turning sharp corners way faster than necessary to make sure we picked the safest and smoothest ride. He monitors my daily caffeine intake, won't let me lift anything heavier than 10 pounds, and never judges me when I ask for Pineapple and Canadian Bacon pizza every night for dinner. He always makes sure to tell me that I'm tough, and a trooper, and that I look beautiful. He has yet to grow tired of feeling the creepy alien movements inside of my tummy, and every day before he leaves to work, he makes sure to tell me, Gatsby, and Brielle goodbye. I was humbled today when I came home from being at a party for a few hours. The floor was mopped, the dishes were put away, the bed was made, the laundry was done, the trash was taken out, the glider was assembled, and he was (and still is) outside, not only vacuuming, but steam cleaning the car to make sure it is sanitized and ready for our baby girl to ride in. Brielle and I are the luckiest ladies. I can hardly wait to see my amazing husband become the most incredible dad.