Every Saturday morning The Husband makes Real Breakfast. Like pancakes and bacon and eggs. Turns on the stove and everything. At first, I thought it was because he knew that if he didn't learn to make breakfast, he'd never get to eat it again, since I'm not exactly a Morning Person (ahem). But later in our marriage I learned that it was one of his love languages--showing care and concern and doing physical things for me and the kids that shows us how much he loves us. So, when I wake up on Saturdays, the house smells like fried maple bacon, pancakes, syrup, warm, honey, safe, family smells.
See, The Husband gets up at 6:00 a.m. even on Saturday. He dresses and has coffee. He prays, meditates, walks five or six miles, (sometimes has to clean up where the dogs have gotten in the trash or where youth have rolled our yard), then he cooks breakfast for the family, while I snore and burrow deeper into the dark recesses of the bedding, praying that the kids will be quiet until 9:00 or later.
I have never one time cleaned up yard trash or toilet paper off of our lawn in 17 years of marriage.
And then one day it hit me.
I pray to God that my daughters marry men who can't find the hamper and don't shut the drawers all the way.
I love you, Pookey.