Last night Mr. Chef went out for a few (million) beers with The German Contingent. The world has been a pretty stressful place for him lately, and so he needed to blow off some steam. He came home late, the baby and I fast asleep, and stumbled into bed.
The night soon progressed along its usual course with the baby waking up hourly and insisting on marathon feeding sessions. At some point in the early morning, long before the sun could extend its rays into our morning bedroom, Mr. Chef got up, took the fussy baby with him, and went out into the living room. His gift to me: two hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep.
Did I mention that he'd been out late? With Germans? Drinking beer? Headache-inducing beer? And that he had a 14-hour workday ahead of him?
If that's not love, then I don't know what is.