Sappy Sappy

For those of you who make fun of me for being a total love-nut, you might want to stop reading. I'm warning you. Total mush ahead.

Michael and I had a fight last night. Actually, I guess it's not really a fight because I was the one who was upset and he wasn't really saying anything. I don't know what you would call it. We'll just leave it at I was upset.

After he fell asleep, I lay awake for almost two hours thinking about the upset-ness and realized that whatever the problem is, we can get through it. I know I've said it before, but I'm one lucky girl. Yes, I love the big romantic stuff that comes along every now and then, but it's really all the little things that he does daily that let me know how much he loves me. For example:

He came home from the grocery store with dinner and some other things we needed. Then he pulled out one container of perfectly ripe raspberries. I love raspberries, but I hardly ever buy them because they are so expensive for such a little bit of fruit. But Michael bought them. For me. Because he knows I love them.

And he brought home a slice of key-lime pie because I mentioned I wanted some over two weeks ago. Yum.

He worries about my car. He remembers the oil changes, new wipers, etc. when I don't. He looked all over the place to find a replacement tail light. He's even spontaneously washed my car (probably because he's tired of looking at the dirt) numerous times.

He shovels the snow because I hate shoveling snow. He also scoops the dog poop, kills the bugs, and smells things in the fridge for me.

He lets me lie on the big couch while he sits on the love seat, even though he's 6'4" and bought the couch because it's big enough for him to lie on.

When he works early in the morning he always fixes the blanket and tucks the big, fluffy comforter around me and kisses me goodbye. Even though I'm half asleep, the gesture means a lot.

The list goes on. Sure, he puts glasses on the ottoman, leaving ring marks, leaves socks on the floor and dishes thisclose to but not in the dishwasher. (Preparation for a house full of boys, he tells me.)

But when he cleans my hair out of the drain or picks up the mail I left on the counter for the umpteenth time, I know he loves me.

And I love him, too.