Ancient History

Follow Me?



Today is not the most romantic day of the year.

I think it was a Tuesday last summer when hubby got home from work and told me to sit and relax, he would take care of dinner.

Or maybe it was on Halloween night, after the sugar-jammed kids were twitching in their beds. We sat outside on the starlit patio and shared a beer while shivering under a Denver Broncos blanket wrapped around our shoulders.

Driving away from the title company after closing on our first house was one of our most emotional moments, ever, electric and illuminated by the heat our teamwork accomplished, hands held tight.

On random weeknights he rubbed my tired feet.

In mid-January, for no apparent special reason, he bought an electric blanket for me and secretly put it on our bed.

He sent Aidan and I to Chicago.

He prays for me.

The getaway he planned entirely on his own at the posh hotel was utterly romantic.

Dairy Queen on a hot Thursday night.

Dairy Queen on a cold Sunday afternoon.

He washes our dirty, dirty dog.

Pancakes—Alton Brown’s recipe—upon request.

He cries with me, laughs with me, conspires with me, dreams with me. 

Today is not the most romantic day of the year. My heart isn’t pitter-patter-pittery-pattery-powing any more than usual. I’m not zinging to the moon, high on teddy bears and cheesy lingerie and chocolate. Those things don’t do it for me, anyway. They never have.

A man who loves his wife?


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