tread carefully: truly mushy ground ahead

Tomorrow is our two-year anniversary.

Because I love celebrations, I am *so* excited; because I'm an overthinker, I've been doing some heavy-duty relationship analysis lately, thinking about how we began, how we've changed, how things are.

Despite the accusations of PDA and whatnot out there, I try not to brag on my husband, mostly because-- well-- when one has the best, one tries not to boast overmuch, mais oui? But being that it's our anniversary, I'm pulling out all the stops:

I have the best.husband.ever.

Apart from being fantastically handsome, so much so that it's only his magic circle on the ring finger of his left hand that keeps women from hurling their underthings at him as he strides around looking all fine, K. is just really, really nice.

Exhibit One:

K. works a lot. At a job that demands a lot--- but he never complains about it, and so he makes it look easy. And when he comes home? Well, he spends another 15+ hours a week (including his entire Saturday) working on a historic building that no one else with less than a million dollars and a hole in their pocket would have touched with a ten-foot-pole.

Contrary to popular opinion, K. does not spend all this time laboring for the sheer love of labor itself (though he does like to work up a good sweat and tear things apart). But what keeps him doing this, day after day, and then coming home to a slightly pouty and infinitely demanding wife (who wants to TALK and take WALKS and do everything she can think of to keep the poor man from sitting on the sofa and watching a few hours of Scrubs) is this: he wants the best for our family.

Me, the pups, and now the little princess; K. keeps his mind on our futures more than I would have ever thought possible.

Exhibit Two:

Here's the real miracle: he doesn't whine, complain, or ever even insinuate that working so hard is a burden. Nope. When K. comes home from whatever job, he's happy to see me-- kisses me, hugs me, and says thank you for any water I might hand him. He praises my cooking without fail, allowes himself to be hauled out to the porch to see my morning glory flowers, and says with real awe, "the house looks beautiful, baby" after I've cleaned it.

Exhibit Three:

And then, sometimes, like yesterday (his ONE day off a week), K. spends his Sunday afternoon making me a bookcase I've been wanting, and then repairs a battered screen door I dragged home so we can have a breeze through our kitchen this fall. And that's right-- he doesn't complain. Instead, he holds my hand as we walk home, teases me about my growing belly, and scritches the dogs' heads as they hustle him for attention when we walk though the door.

And then:

Even when we fight (and we do), he listens to me. He's been known to say he's sorry. And nothing truly hurtful comes out of his mouth, not ever. There are so many lines that he never crosses, and that's why our world-- which occasionally fills with grumpiness, anxiety, and nothing-for-dinners-- stays so magical. Because he always puts us first.

Because he's the best husband ever.