Seven Years

I'm not particularly sentimental, I'm certainly not gushing, and I'm never gonna write a soliloquy about love.  But I am gonna say that America and it's outgoing, outspoken, overt love of family is starting to rub off on me. So...

I love my husband.
I love that he knows how to make me smile.  And laugh.
I love that he can make friends with anyone in any situation.
I love that he's silent and thoughtful, while I'm immediately opinionated.
I love that he doesn't mind doing housework, and probably mops the floor more than I do.
I love that he likes the food I make, even though I'm not a very good or exciting cook.
I love that he makes me a chocolate cake every birthday, even though he probably hates baking more than ironing.
I love that still he's willing to iron.
I love that he's willing to drive 8 hours straight, when really we should take it turn about.
I love that his kids love him, and always want to sit next to him.
I love that we can joke about seriously chipping the paintwork of the car, and even when it turns out it was me (there was some debate for a while), he still just shrugged.
I love that he's laid back.
I love that he lets me eat pretty much the last of every sweet thing.  And that he doesn't mind me eating all of the Toblerone I especially bought for him.
I love that he loves his bed in the mornings.
I love that we still enjoy lunch together.
I love that our life and decision making feels easy with him.
I love that we have history.
I love that I know him, and that he knows me.
I love him just the way he is.  And love that he loves me just the way I am.
I love my husband.  And I love the kids and the life that he is giving me.

Seven years: no idea what the itch is all about.