Today around noon I was upstairs in Baby Harris's room, working to finish painting the trim white. As I've lamented before (either on blog or in person), my ENTIRE HOUSE is painted this sick cream color. The ceilings, the walls, the trim, the doors... can you say vom? I'm determined that my firstborn will not be brought up to think that all walls, ceilings, etc are supposed to be that color, so I've taken matters into my own hands (read: broken the rules in my lease) and have unleashed my innner painter on the baby's room (btw, we've decided to name him Dylan... did you all know that already?).
The ceiling is now white, the walls are an adorable blue, and the trim is 90% white. Once I get off my butt and finish the job it'll be 100% white, I promise.
There is a point to this post, and describing the baby's room is not it. I'll have to save that for another day.
Picture me in the baby's room, painting the trim, when I hear Ben come through the front door. The crazy man had a 6:45 am tee time and was just getting home. He calls me by a certain pet name that I detest and asks me to come downstairs.
I bound downstairs and see that he has brought home Wendy's for his lunch and has brought me my very own Frosty. Seriously, my eyes about welled up with tears.
How thoughtful is he to bring me one of my favorite treats without me asking him? I started jumping up and down and thanked him profusely.
All he said in response was, "Well, I know that the way to your heart is through your stomach."
So sad, so true.