Mother Teresa was canonized this past weekend. And apparently, my husband is going to be soon. (Although I don’t think you can canonize a living person. But I’m sure they are working on writing a new order for this so they can canonize Casey.)
Look, I love my husband. Choosing him to be my life partner is part of my greatest legacy. Choosing him to be the father of our child; one of my best choices. But, don’t get it twisted, he isn’t Mother Teresa. Excuse me, Saint Teresa.
He’s human. And mostly a good one. But when other people (usually women) witness him father, when they witness him partner with me, you’d think he was a saint.
“Wow. Noelle. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
(Thinking, in my head, as I take my first bite of my lukewarm dinner) ‘lucky? Because we are eating? Yes. I’m lucky. I’m sorry did you want me to say grace?’
And then it hits me. Oh no, I’m “lucky” because my husband just took Elden on a little walk outside of the restaurant. I had been holding Elden and he started to get fussy, so Casey took him. And apparently this makes me lucky.
And apparently, this act of parenting (and others like it) makes Casey a saint.
I’ve learned, quickly, that the world/culture/society is not used to mostly good men. We aren’t used to good husbands/partners or decent dads. The bar has been so lowered that the small act of holding the small human that your small sperm helped create (or the small human that you chose to parent) now counts as one of the two miracles needed to be canonized.