My husband is a smart man.
The other day I huffed up the stairs behind him and moaned, “Slow down I don’t think I’ve ever been so pregnant.” It was a silly thing to say, but Dan knew better than to try to reason with me. He wisely chose not to point out the fact that of course I’ve been this pregnant before–six times, in fact. He just smiled, patted my belly, and said, “I don’t think so either.”
Then last night at bedtime, Dan surveyed the toys and books strewn across the living room floor, glanced at me sitting on the couch with my head in my hands, and announced that the kids had 90 seconds to put everything away. Like magic, they did.
What’s more, last Friday night I happened to mention the fact that since we didn’t go to my parents’ house this Thanksgiving, I missed out on having one of my favorite holiday foods– green olives–this year. Dan made no comment, but on Saturday afternoon, he returned from the boys’ basketball games with a brown paper bag in hand. From it he pulled a jar of green olives and placed them, unceremoniously, on the kitchen counter.
I’m no expert on these matters, but I know this much: To this rather pregnant mother of many, love is a jar of olives. Green ones. Stuffed with red pimientos.