Our cape isn't visible.
But, it is somehow made of steel.
Our cape has to be strong enough to take care of little faces when you are on your knees crying from your own illness.
Our cape has to be strong enough to watch you hurt.
Our cape has to be strong enough to watch you make mistakes.
Our cape, it has to be strong enough to stand in the middle of the kitchen, cleaning morning dishes, getting dinner on, having you both screaming over a toy, still trying to finish up the work day, and all in one breath, realize that they are only little for a little longer.
Our cape has to be strong enough to admit that we're wrong and apologize for over reacting.
Our cape has to be strong enough to let go of privacy.
Our cape, it has to be strong enough to watch you get sick, and sit in an ambulance with you, and not lose every part of your heart with each and every beating moment.
Our cape, it has to be strong enough to bleed for you, to be opened up on a table to have you taken out of me.
Our cape, it has to be strong enough to struggle with the fact that you will never be done with babies, even if we're done with kids.
Our cape, it has to be strong enough for all of them.
And it gets its strength from you.
It gets strength from watching you finally figure out how to play with each other.
It gets strength from watching you become the dad I always knew you were.
It gets its strength from watching love grow in our home.
It gets it strength from our family, our times together, our love, our arguments, our insane fights, our long hugs, holding hands, stealing kisses.
Our cape, it isn't visible, but you made it out of steel.
