my romance

...doesn't have to have a moon in the sky. To be honest, my romance...isn't so romantic. It isn't marked by lavish bouquets or luxurious jewels or jet-setting weekends at posh resorts. No champagne and caviar, no box seats at the opera, no ostentatious textbook Valentine-iness. My romance isn't measured by expense or extravagance or gushing love notes. It doesn't include La Perla, or even breakfast in bed. No vampires or Mr. Darcy nor any Rhett Butlers, neither Sir Lancelot. In fact, most wouldn't consider my romance romantic. But it's mine, my own kind of romantic.

Instead of declarations in diamonds and furs, I find romance hiding, sneaking about in the daily grind. It's in the trash cans, that make their way to the curb each Monday morning while I'm still snuggled up in bed. It's in the weekend pancakes. It's there on the nights he says, "just go, I'll hold down the fort."  Even though I'm pretty sure that means keeping the babies concussion-free while he watches football on TV. Still, it's there. When he checks the used-book store weekly for my next favorite novel. When I take an interest in "the playoffs" or Garth Brooks' Vegas debut or the inspiration behind Gus McCray and Woodrow Call. In the late night runs to the drugstore on my behalf. Now that's true love if ever there was. 

Romance echoes in the sacrifices we make for his talents. In text-ing him the latest milestones on the home front while he's away. In organizing his dresser drawers for the 857th time though 48 hours will have proven my efforts in vain. In watching Masterpiece Theatre with me in a blue moon.  In every trip he makes to the post office simply so I don't have to.  In surprise valentine balloons for the little boys. My romance is dotted with his shameless encouragement in my new challenges and gilded with the silly games and testosterone bonding between one daddy and his two little boys. 

I'm not sure what champagne and FTD really have to do with romance at all, really. I suppose they are romanticized ideas of what makes romance romantic, and I suppose they are all romantically nice things. I certainly wouldn't object to the occasional Godiva or gigantic bundle of stargazer lillies. But, even if it means eating leftover chocolate cake for breakfast and calling it romantic or if it means making do instead of living large, I suppose I'll hang on to this romance, this romance of mine.