It was just after ten o’clock. The children were bathed. Stories had been read. Everyone was tucked snugly into bed. Smokey, our fourteen-year-old cat, lay beside me purring softly. The house was peaceful. I was sitting in bed enjoying a few moments of television before lights out. Ken sat next to me reading a book. That’s when it hit me, the smell of rotten eggs.
Ken did what every husband does in this situation. He laughed loudly, smiled like a proud puppy and said, “That was a good one.”
I frowned at him. “I’m going to get the Febreeze.”
Some people think true love means flowers and diamonds. Some people think it means romantic dinners and exotic trips. Some people think it means lavishing your loved ones with sentimental poems and songs. But I’m here to tell you that those people are wrong.
The real sign of true love is when you can fart in bed knowing that you won’t find yourself sleeping alone in the morning.
Ken and I have been together for over twenty years. We’ve been married for over sixteen. At this point, he has seen me at my best and he has seen me at my worst.
When we met, I was young and lean. There was plenty of free time for us to enjoy shared activities, like playing volleyball or going to the gym. I spent more time fussing with my hair and makeup and shopping for the latest styles. Ken loved me then.
A few years later we were married. Back then, I worked sixty hours a week at a job I hated. The pay was lousy and the stress was unbearable. Our finances were tight. Sometimes I would come home from work and cry. Other times, I would lash out at Ken. “I can’t live like this anymore!” I would scream. Ken loved me then.
Time passed. We moved to the mid-west. I was pregnant with our first child, Eric (now 7 years old). My stomach grew huge. My feet were swollen. My face was puffy. For nine months, I was grouchy, sick, and tired. "I can't even touch my toes." I lamented. Ken loved me then.
Three years later, Emily (now four years old), was making her way into the world. We had left the house at three o’clock in the morning when my contractions started. A few hours later she was born. My hair was matted and wet. My eyes were black and swollen. My cheeks were bright red. “Leave me alone.” I warned when Ken tried to rub my arm and comfort me. Ken loved me then. Two years later, I was sitting on the couch holding our new baby, Beth (now two years old). My shoulders were sagging. My hair had not been brushed in days. I hadn’t showered that day because I had been up all night with the baby. When Ken tried to send me to my room for a much-needed nap, I snapped at him. "I'm the Mom." I said. "I can handle this on my own." Ken loved me then.
Real love is the person who will sit next to your hospital bed at two in the morning and spoon feed you ice chips even when you are growling at him. Real love is the person who looks you in the eye and says, “Let me book you a plane ticket so you can visit your parents. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of the kids while you are gone.”
Real love is the person who, when he notices your car is low on gas, drives out in the middle of a snowstorm to fill your tank so you can get to work on time in the morning. Real love is the person who smiles and says, “You look beautiful” even though you know you have put on a few extra pounds over the years.
Last week Eric and Emily were playing together on the floor in the family room. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper.
“What was that noise?” Emily said.
Eric looked at me and frowned. “Mommy farted.”
Emily defended my honor. “Mommy doesn’t fart. She toots.”
The children looked over at me waiting for me to settle the dispute. I scanned the room and then pointed at Trixie, our other cat. “It must have been the cat.” I said.
Ken, who had been sitting nearby strumming his guitar, snicker softly. I waited to see if he would play along or give me away. “Trixie, you are a bad kitty.” He said with a chuckle.
Now that’s real love.
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