I'm pretty sure I'm totally in love with him.
When I'm staring at him with sore cheeks admiring his humble hilarious story-telling, and he lets me tell the punch-line because he knows I love a crowd.
When I'm sure I've used the wrong cliche in a horribly destructive way, and he's watching the road with a huge grin and I know he's not laughing at the asphault. He just keeps driving, and smiling, because he thinks it's cute. How I slaughter the English language in embarrassing ways.
When he talks about fabric.
Or when he lets me take a nap on Fathers Day.
When he gives me the last mango popsicle. His favorite.
When he tells me what's going on at work, and I have no idea what he's talking about but I love looking at the gap between his teeth when he says the word deadline.
And when he watches Food Network with me. Or validates my ridiculous commentary on the Lakers game. Or acts impressed, again, when I tell him, again, how I danced at a Nuggets game half-time.
When he dives hard to catch my pretend curve ball.
It's when he looks at me. Like I'm the most perfect thing on Earth; knowing better than anyone I'm not.
I'm pretty sure I'm really totally in love with him.
It's when he carries them to bed, holds their hands at the park, wrestles them silly, has "classified" conversations with them, puts their cranky needs first, pays them 10cents for every weed they pull, talks about their talents instead of mistakes, laughs at their tantrums,
and looks at them like they're the most perfect things on Earth; knowing they're not yet.
I'm pretty sure he's really totally in love with us.
And that pretty much makes him perfect.