The Truth About Love

So my blog post from earlier today was one I’d been planning on sharing for a while. I love my husband, and I’m proud of everything he’s done for me. I know some wives who are hard on their husbands and that makes me sad, so anytime I can state clearly how great mine is, I take the chance.

That said, I want to tell you about our Valentine’s Day. It started with a sleepless night as Callaway went into a whole other level of snoring, including the moo-snore and the growl-snore. It was otherworldly, people. And then Guy woke me at 5:30 to promptly start his day of biting my arms. I am pretty sure from the imprints on my hands that he’s going to need braces. And then, lucky us, Callaway woke up to the voms.

We spent our whole day in PJs and just ordered in pizza, which is the first thing Callaway’s held down all day, and we’ll spend our evening together, between me sneaking peeks at The Bachelor and Callaway fixing the toilet that broke this morning.

This is love. I wish that I could tell you it was always like it is in the books, but most of the time, love is quiet. Love is work. I promised to stick things out in sickness and in health, so if that means spending the majority of the most romantic day of the year coaxing water and soup into my dehydrated husband who is taking up all the space on the couch, that’s just what I’m going to do.

I want for everyone to find a person who just sends them over the moon and makes you kind of melt inside, but I also hope that that person also happens to be someone you’re prepared to do the boring stuff with. This is the bulk of life. And it’s beautiful.