Live. Laugh. Love.

It's such a cliche.

Valentine's Day: the day for exchanging chocolates and red roses and hoping that some special person will notice you. 

Or the day for having it pointed out in no uncertain terms just how nonexistent your "love life" really is.

 But yesterday, as I was thinking through the "ideal" evening with my own "special someone," something dawned on me. Or, perhaps I should say "re-dawned" because it has occurred to me before. My favorite thing about my husband is that he is my friend. 

I know, that is cliche too. 

But I think that it is often overlooked. So much emphasis is placed on the chocolates and roses and fluffy pink feelings and romantic candlelight dinners and tuxedos (although, I will say, I'm a sucker for my dressed-up husband. With a bow tie.)

My favorite evenings, though, are the ones where we are doing the dishes together and making fun of each other and laughing so hard we can't breathe. 

Or the ones where we are eating by candlelight again, not to be romantic, but because the power has gone out. Again. 

Or the ones where we run outside 

and desperately try to pull all of the dry laundry off the line 

as the first sprinkles of rain begin to fall, 

and we are getting all tangled up the clean clothes and clothesline 

and laughing and tripping over our toddler 

who is trying so hard to help 

and is just managing to be everywhere that is most inconvenient. 

Or the ones where we eat a whole roll of oreos (who decided that so many delicious little cookies should go in one package?) while I read a book and he sits beside me and plays a computer game. 

When we were engaged, we were warned over and over again (perhaps due to our rather short dating time) that after we were married, the fun and romance would wear off, and at some point we were going to have to face the reality that is mundane married life. 

Well… duh. Of course the fuzzy feelings can't last forever, continuously, all the time. 

But friendship can. 

And when we just aren't feeling the starry-eyed romance in the middle of the stuff that is life… 

we can always laugh. 

At each other. 

With each other. 

At life. 

And I think, that is what love really looks like. 

Not chocolates (although I do love chocolate). 

Not roses (not my favorite flower, anyways). 

Not tuxedos (although, refer to the above confession regarding my stance on suits.) 

But love is laughing and rolling up our sleeves and washing the dishes. 

Or sweeping. 

Or stumbling around and finding the matches and candles in the dark so that we can see to finish dinner. 

Or giving the toddler a bath because he sat in a puddle. Again. 

And always, being willing to laugh. 

And live.

And love.