There has been a plague on our house these last few weeks.
Last year for valentines he brought me a slinky night gown, this year I gave him a nasty cold - you win some, you loose some.
So the past two weeks has been a litany of complaints. Coughing sneezing and sinusitis, wakeful nights and self pitying days. First me and then him. Between us we have conquered enough tissues to fell a small forest.
And this is life, imperfect and messy and happening all around us.
He is my Valentine, this snotty feverish mess in bed next to me who badly needs a haircut.
And I am his Valentine, 8 months big and snoring like a trooper (the beautiful miracle of pregnancy!)
So I am finding poetry in the prose this February.
In the way he held me upright in bed for an hour one night when I was so so so tired and the coughing wouldn't stop.
The way I cycled out late hunting for strepsils for him and then took his temperature about a thousand times to make sure that his fever really had broken.
Even in the loss of patience and grace and the realisation that we still have a lot to learn about loving one another well.
Despite all this, I feel absurdly grateful because I know that love grows here.
It's hanging out on the crowded bedside table with the bacteria, lemsip and cough medicine, making its home in small gestures and kind words.
So this post is a tribute to my husband.
These days we recognise both strength and weakness in each other.
Because yes, it's true that we are fragile, selfish people made out of 100% human.
But it is equally true that we are much, much better together than we are apart.