"Maybe I shouldn't have blogged about the paperboy the day before Valentine's Day," I mused aloud.
"Yup," said Greg.
"Not the current one," I protested.
"I know which one you meant."
"How do you know?"
"The one you had a thing for," he said, not bothering to look up from the paper, which had been delivered right to our door.
"Thing" being a general term, Greg's not worried. We've been together since the day in July 1991 he told me he liked me. Greg knows pretty much every thing going through my busy brain, and yet he sticks around.
He wakes up early to herd the kids off to school, because he knows I can't function if I don't sleep past 7. He listens at night when I'm talkative and he's tired. He works hard and makes time for the kids. His music is smart and his jokes are funny. He gets a big grin on his face when we're able to have the rare date.
He encourages me to follow the paths I should. When those make me too busy to keep up with the housework, he says, "Let it go."
He's my valentine.