Marriage: I notice
I notice when you switch sides with me on the pavement to protect me from passing cars.
I notice when you wake me after I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa, approaching with the kind of caution one might reserve for a lion or bear.
I notice that you only eat the lemon French Fancies from the box because you know that the pink and chocolate ones are my favourites.
I notice that you don’t complain that I always put my toothbrush, facial wash and moisturiser in your wash bag when we go away, despite having a perfectly good one of my own.
I notice that you sit through five episodes of Coronation Street a week, even though, most of the time, absolutely nothing interesting happens at all.
I notice that lots of people would get angry if their wife put their socks or boxer shorts in the bin because “the holes were just getting out of hand”. But you don’t.
I notice that you say “Back yourself” every time I doubt my worth, my skills, or my decisions, and that the words are slowly starting to go in.
I notice that you don’t comment that there were 36 Jaffa Cakes in the cupboard at the start of the week and none by the end, and that you ate precisely zero.
I notice when you come home after a night out, eat an entire Shepherd’s Pie and two Twister lollies, and pass out with the TV on. Because everybody deserves to let their hair down sometimes.
I notice that it takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to shout at the rugby when you watch it while I’m in bed.
I notice that you don’t mention that just because I keep my massive pile of part-worn clothes on a chair, it doesn’t make it less annoying than your pile that lives on the floor, and about which I never. stop. complaining.
I notice that you’ve started making the effort to hold my hand during a film since I gave you feedback about ‘ignoring’ me in the cinema.
I notice when you chase after a waitress at a wedding because I’m pregnant and not quick enough on my feet to score a canapé.
I notice when you take the time to read every blog I write before I hit ‘Publish’ – even though you’re tired and busy, and so many of them poke fun at you.
I notice when you go to the supermarket just because I really fancy some strawberries.
I notice that you don’t comment when I then don’t eat the strawberries because I filled up on KitKats while you were out.
I notice that you put your arm around me whenever ‘Jerusalem’ is sung at weddings because you know it always makes me cry.
I notice when you say that you’re proud of me for coping with the ups and downs of carrying our baby.
I notice that I couldn’t do any of it without you.
As I unpacked the box of Imodium from my weekend bag I thought – Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.
His response is always the same – concern, a couple of gentle reminders that freaking out will only worsen my predicament, and then relentless (slightly irritating at the time, totally wise and sensible in retrospect) instructions to drink copious amounts of water to ensure my continued survival. He then amuses himself doing whatever he likes until I improve. He doesn’t get cross that I ruined the holiday or start asking me for an approximate time at which I’ll be ready to hit the gin again, he just offers quiet reassurance that I’ll be back on the Pringles before I know it and that he’ll be there to peel off the lid. And for that I will always be grateful.