Getting a huge grin when I correctly identify a song as being sung by Zack de la Rocha (because he knows I hate Rage Against the Machine and can rarely tell the difference between that band and The Beastie Boys.)
Midnight chocolate milk parties.
NOT wanting to go to a Superbowl party because I was eight months pregnant and he thinks I’d be miserable around a bunch of drunk, excited people.
Automatically assuming that he can’t go to a concert because it’s 4 hours away from our hospital and the date is a week before my due date.
Pulling me off the couch every night because I can’t sit up by myself and I can’t help but lie down.
Telling me that my snoring is feminine and cute when we both know it’s not.
Offering to get me something to eat or drink so I don’t have to get up.
Going to every single doctor’s appointment with me.
Helping me put on my shoes because I can’t reach or my feet are too swollen.
Driving me to and from work on his days off. Just because.
Letting me finish up the episode of Bones I was watching when he walked in from work, even though he’s seen the episode a million times (still fewer than I have) and can’t stand the show.
Not getting mad at me when I accidentally wake him up with my sleepless-night gymnastics. (Rolling over is a feat worthy of Olympic consideration when you’re this big.)
Bringing me a cup of coffee every morning.
Doing the laundry without complaint (despite the fact that I keep nagging that he’s doing it wrong) because he knows it hurts for me to bend over.
Dragging the mat into the building every night he picks me up from work, for the same reason as above.
Making a concerted effort to walk more slowly because I don’t have the same stride I used to have.
Telling me my hair is getting long. It’s not even at my shoulders yet, but it’s much longer than the original pixie cut.
Rubbing my shoulders or feet when they hurt.
Bouncing on the other yoga ball next to me. It does make me feel less ridiculous.
Being excited about childbirth.
Calming me down when I start to worry.
Denying that I’ve been cranky, telling me I’ve been “on edge” and deservedly so, seeing as how everyone around me is being obnoxious.
Saying I’m beautiful or cute.
Acknowledging when he’s being a butthead.
Cheering up when I make an effort to cheer him up.
Playing with Molly.
Standing up for me, especially when it’s really hard to do so.
Wanting to take care of me.
Not taking it personally when I don’t want to be touched.
Thinking fart jokes are funny. They aren’t. But for some reason, it’s endearing that he thinks they are.
Allowing me to make (and understanding) Star Wars references.
Asking me questions all the time. It makes me feel smart when I know the answers.
Being (or pretending to be) impressed with my random assortment of trivial knowledge.
Making me feel comfortable enough to be myself.
Forgiving me when I apologize.
Caring enough to argue with me.
Not touching me with his feet.
Helping me to put together all the baby furniture. And wash all the clothes. And organize them. And arrange the room.
Unlocking the door on my side of the car first when he parked on the side of the street.
Knowing what my “usual” is in every restaurant we go to.
Knowing that I hate whipped cream.
Eating the pickles off my burger for me.
Kissing me goodbye every morning.
Not leaving when things looked rough.
Working through our issues when I was ready to give up.