My husband, Matt, is not childish. He’s steadfast, logical, and patient. Oh Lord, is he patient.

He often spends thirty minutes trying to convince me to come to bed when I’ve fallen asleep on the couch after a long week at work. Then he spends the first 30 minutes of the next morning trying to convince me to get out of that bed. We’re stuck in a very lethargic version of Groundhog Day most weekends, and where I would give up after five minutes, he keeps trying. We’ve been together for five years, and he still keeps trying. And he does this without even raising his voice. The man doesn’t even swear about it, whereas in the past I’ve cursed – probably more than once – over dropping a bobby pin.

Compared to him, I’m the poster child for childish irrationality. After all, when I’m tired, I can’t be convinced to gather up the energy to walk the fifteen steps it takes to reach our bed. And yet. And yet! He hates vegetables with a passion more commonly found among toddlers. Hates! Try to sneak just a little raw tomato into his meal and he’ll look at you like you fed him just a little arsenic.

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