My husband. He is nice.
This week was rough, to say the least, but he was there.
He was there when BOTH dogs pooped on the floor (and the not-healthy-variety at that) before I had to go to work one day last week, and he cleaned it up. And this is no small fact, because we have an agreement about poop. In that he doesn't have to clean it up. (Don't worry, I exchanged poop for vomit in the negotiations, and I think I came out quite ahead on this deal.) But he did it anyway.
He was there when I had to go out of town after my grandma died. He took care of not only our house and dog but my parents' house and (cu-razy) dog as well. He even mowed their lawn for them (as well as ours).
He was there, on the other end of the phone line, when my plane landed in Dallas on Monday and I realized in the parking lot that I didn't have my car keys. Immediately, he left work, brought me my spare key, and even took me to dinner afterward.
He was there when I worked a 60-hour week and didn't complain once when he had to get himself a bowl of cereal for dinner once again because I haven't had the time or energy to make anything else. Again.
He was there when I didn't have enough time to clean the house before our guests came in this weekend. He made sure the guest sheets were clean and put on the bed. He made sure they had towels in the linen closet. He made sure the dishes were done and the house was picked up. He even made our bed for me in the morning.
He was there today, on the first day we've had more than an hour alone together in more than a week, and he chose to take me window shopping and buy me lunch during the few hours we had. And now he's here, sitting across the room and watching TV, content once again just to be in the room with me while we have the chance.
He's always here. He's my constant. And I do not take that for granted for a second.
When nothing else in my life is good, he is.