If that's not love, what is?

"Do you love me?

Do I what?
Do you love me?

For twenty-five years I've lived with him,
Fought him, starved with him,
Twenty-five years my bed is his,
If that's not love, what is?

Then do you love me?
I suppose I do.
And I suppose I love you, too.
It doesn't change a thing, but even so,
after twenty-five years,
it's nice to know."

You know that song from Fiddler on the Roof where Tevye asks Golde if she loves him? And she rattles off a list of chores she has done for 25 years that proves her love?

I think I finally know just what they mean.

See, my husband is not the flower-sending kind. Don't get me wrong. I have gotten them. Just not on a regular, everyday basis like I think I should.

My husband is not the foot massage giving kind of guy. I think my ugly, knobby feet might actually disgust him. He's more the type to try massaging OTHER parts, if you know what I mean.

And my husband definitely is not the "Surprise! I bought you a sparkly new diamond ring for no reason!" kind of guy (unlike some lucky girls - hi, Emily!)

But I do know that he loves me.

How do I know? Because he builds me things like this, of his own accord and design, knowing just how much I need it in my life:

A giant, wall-sized bulletin board, covered in a pretty red-checked fabric. Divided into three sections, topped with crisp white wooden letters, clearly, and oh-so-neatly, denoting each kids' spot.

He knows the piles of papers that come home from the school need to have a home. And he knows that their current home (which is piled up on my desk) makes me crazy. So, he spent a whole Saturday last weekend putting this together for little ol' moi.

In addition to that, he gave up his lifelong dream of having a man cave downstairs and put wainscoting on the walls in the basement, knowing full well he'd never get to hang that rifle, Danish flag, and beer keg lid on walls as pretty as these.

So does he love me? I suppose he does.

Although, if he ever wanted to send flowers or big, sparkly diamond rings in addition to the house stuff, I wouldn't necessarily refuse them. You know, because I'm just so nice like that.

Thanks, baby.

After almost 15 years together, I suppose I love you, too.

The Giving Stie

My favorite place to curl up in the warmth of the afternoon sun with a good book:
And the good book I'm currently reading unable to put down:

Oh, the sacrifices one makes on a Sunday, staying home with a [yes, still!] sick child. Oh, but I'd have gladly let The Husband take my place if he didn't have that darn Sunday School class to teach.

Honestly, I would have.

But, alas, duty calls and I must do my part. I'm just a good woman like that.

Reason #85 why I'll keep him

My mudroom has been the bane of my existence for several months now. I think it has actually caused my OCD brain to seizure when I walk by it. I am so fed up with stepping over coats, shoes, boots, and backpacks.

My eye twitching and Tourette's-like swearing made it clear to us that the current organizational system wasn't working.


So what to do? Well, first The Husband was home for the long holiday vacation with not much work to do. He starts by tearing out the old hooks and shelves:


He draws up some plans, gets all the supplies, and starts to build some new lockers and shelves. I have seen his work before and do not doubt his vision, even if he won't let me touch the hammer or drill, no matter how much I beg. I guess I am content to be just the apprentice/laborer:


After two days, some paint, and about six trips to Home Depot, I now have this new piece of organizational bliss. There is plenty of shoe space at the bottom. Each child has a locker (designated by their initial) and on either side of the lockers are a set of shelves where I can put things.

Like chocolate. Or money. Or buried treasure I find out in the backyard.

The point is -- I have somewhere to put things! Yay me!


There are days I might consider selling The Husband. Today is not one of them.