The Hubby is an amazing father. Much of this owes to the fact that he is—by his own admission—really a 9 year-old boy in a big man’s body.

But being a good play-mate doesn’t necessarily translate into being a good caretaker. Now, let me start out by bragging on this man a little. Did you know that he is directly responsible for saving two lives? Both, coincidentally, from near-drownings.

One of those lives was my own, when I was trapped underwater in the tangled roots of a cypress tree by a monster current. I had given up hope of mustering enough strength for one final effort to extricate myself and force my head above the surface when his strong hand reached down and pulled me up.

The second—well, actually the first: the story I just told you took place about three years after the one I’m about to tell you. Remember: no particular order, right? Anyway, where was I…oh–the other one  was a 6 year old boy. We were camping with friends and had gone in for a swim. The lake’s maddeningly gentle slope meant that you had to walk halfway to the middle before the water even came up to your hips. One minute, My Future Hubby saw this little boy playing in the water with his ball. When he looked back, the boy had disappeared. He launched himself off of the double air raft we were sharing—launching me off the other side, thankyouverymuch— and pounded that water like Michael Phelps (who was probably still in diapers at the time), and as I watched in awe he ducked under and came up with a very scared little boy.

So in addition to having cute knees, this man is a bona-fide hero.

And in over 14 years of parenting, he has proven to be a very good caretaker. Truthfully, he has a more than decent record when it comes to looking out for the safety of his own children. I mean, he’s never lost one of them. At least, not for more than half an hour–which, in guy terms, doesn’t even come close to being “really lost.” And they’ve all lived through various misadventures, both the kind that leave evidence (like the time Ri fell off our bed head-first onto the clock-radio, raising a huge purple goose egg in the middle of her forehead only 15 minutes before I arrived home ready to take pictures of her for the Christmas cards. “No, we meant to wrap the headband so that the bow sat square in the middle of her forehead. We’re starting a trend.”), and the kind that in and of themselves leave no trail, but are nonetheless revealed by little beings who revel in seeing someone else on the receiving end of trouble for a change.

When Mason wasn’t yet mobile (in conventional terms) and not sitting up on his own, The Hubby left him playing safely on the living room carpet while he came into the kitchen to get a drink. I came into the kitchen from the other room about the same time, and we started chatting about the stuff that married people tend to chat about.

We talked for a few minutes before I asked, “Where’s Mason?”   Now, it’s not that I didn’t trust him when he told me Mason was on the rug. I mean, it’s a fairly self-contained area, and the kid was non-mobile…mostly. What could happen? But somehow we mommies find staring at our children fascinating, so I meandered into the living room to take a gander at him.

I walked around the couch….and no Mason. 

“Honey? Are you sure this is where you left him?”

“Of course I’m sure–you think I wouldn’t remember?”

By now The Hubby was standing next to me looking at the empty space that was supposed to contain a Mason, only notsomuch. It’s not a very big area—it’s basically a 5′X8′-ish rug bordered by a couple of chairs on each short end, an entertainment cabinet on one long side and a couch on the other. If he’d been crawling, he could have motored away. But he wasn’t, so he couldn’t.

So there we were, trying to make sense of the situation. It’s not as if we could look any harder—it was one of those “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” kinda moments. Somebody might have said something along the lines of “Oh my gosh—you lost the baby! I leave you alone for fifteen minutes and you go and lose the baby! Who loses a baby in their own house?” I don’t exactly recall….

Then suddenly, we heard it–like the infamous scene in Poltergeist where the mom is shaking her son, screaming “Where is CaroleAnne? Where is she?” And they both turn toward the television, where CaroleAnne’s muffled voice is coming through the static. Only the sound of Mason’s muffled voice wasn’t coming from the television. It was coming from….the couch?

And that’s when I saw it—the telltale flutter of the skirt around the bottom of the couch. I reached under—hoping it wasn’t some ghoul or goblin, because Poltergeist always did scare the pee outta me as a kid—and grabbed hold of a pudgy little foot. One good tug landed a slightly scared, lint-covered, twelve-pound dust-bunny in a blue romper…

…and landed The Hubby a job sweeping under the couch….

Tags: 9 year-old, drowning, dust bunny, father, hero, lost children, Poltergeist, The Hubby