In case I haven't made this abundantly clear, I adore my husband. I love that he is ready to stand up and fight for me should I need it, but considers me a strong and capable woman well able to handle matters on my own.
He holds doors for me. He stands when I leave or return to the table. He's an amazing writer. He's got a velvety-deep voice that sends delicious shivers down my spine. His bodhran work keeps improving; DAMN, but he's good! For various holidays he has given me: a signed Brian Froud print, a large, restaurant quality sautee pan, and musketeer-bladed swept-hilt rapier. He believes in me even when I can not believe in myself. He's funny. He's passionate in his views; I love listening to him talk politics, or the merits of Heinlen, or why the JLA would kick the Avengers' collective ass.
Yes, he does, on occasion, make me cranky. When he drives, he rides the brake so hard it induces motion sickness. He eats the most alarming combinations of food.
But he will still, if I ask, tell me a bedtime story. He doesn't tease me for my fancies, or make fun of me when I say the trees are speaking to one another. And he thinks I am beautiful.
I must have done something very, very right.