On my drive into work yesterday I realized something. It's so easy to be patient with my husband when he is sick. I don't expect anything out of him because I know he feels terrible and I want to do whatever I can to help him get better. The true test of patience is when we are both well and able, because that is when I set expectations for him, often too high. When we got home Sunday night, I unpacked his suitcase along with mine, did a few loads of laundry, and cleaned up the apartment, because it was easy to serve him when I knew he needed it. On any normal night, my thoughts usually go like this: "why should I fold his laundry or cook him dinner when he hasn't taken out the smelly trash in 4 days?" or "he can clean up his pile of mail, and I'll just work around it until he notices it's bugging me" (which, by the way, he doesn't ever). I'll get home from work on a Tuesday and have lots of energy and want to get some chores done, expecting him to have the same amount of energy as me even though I know he's worked a long day (and maybe didn't get that afternoon caffeine jolt like I did). If I have something on my to-do list, I expect him to know it's on there and to do something about it.