I once thought that love was defined by the romance of fairy tales.
I thought that the bigger the diamond, the more I was loved. Or the more flowers sent to the office, the more I was loved. Or the more exotic the surprise getaway, the more I was loved.
Well, I don’t have a big diamond. I think I received flowers at the office exactly one time. And there has never been an exotic or surprise getaway.
But 13 years of marriage, four pregnancies, and two kids later, I’ve finally realized that my husband’s love for me cannot be measured in impractical gifts or momentary fantasies. In fact, my definition of romance has been wrong all along.
Like when my husband comes home to piles of dirty dishes and dirty floors, and without prompting starts scrubbing and sweeping.
Or when he fills my car up with gas, and I don’t notice until I turn the ignition the next morning.
Or when he rearranges his schedule so I can run errands by myself.
Or when, before I officially lose it, he notices that I need a few minutes without my kids breathing down my neck.
Or when he takes out the garbage because there’s no telling when I’ll get around to doing it.
Or when he changes a diaper without me asking him to.
Or when he treats us to dinner at a burger joint so the dishes I just did and the floors I just swept might, fingers crossed, stay clean until breakfast.
Or when he chooses to comfort instead of criticizing when life gets hard and my mood quickly deteriorates.
Romance isn’t shiny, expensive, or luxurious.
Instead, it’s rather ordinary. It’s demonstrated by a husband who keeps showing up day after day despite the mess and hard work that’s involved. It’s the million little acts of service that are done simply out of love.
My husband loves me and he shows it. And isn’t that really what romance is all about?
This article was first published on CafeMom and was republished on theAsianparent with their permission.
