Greg is working at home today, downstairs in the office. Bethie and I are upstairs, reading Princess books to affirm her burgeoning sense of entitlement, biting the heads off of goldfish crackers while loudly contemplating what sound effects a goldfish might make during its own beheading, and seeing how far she can roll down the hallway while curled up inside a giant bucket. It’s these kinds of activities that get me Mother Of The Year.
Usually I have AIM (AOL instant messenger) open on my laptop so that I can chat with Greg, you know, things like, “THAT CRASH YOU JUST HEARD WAS NOTHING.” Except today he hasn’t had his AIM open. I sent him some warm, compassionate email to this effect:
You aren’t on AIM! And you claim you love me.
RIGHT?
His response, including screenshot, which had me laughing out loud (and yes I’m spelling that out):
I’ve been trying all day, but I can’t!!! I love you with the blazing intensity of a million suns being torn asunder in a cosmic whirlpool of destruction as they circle and fall into the singularity the size of a galaxy.
Okay, he wins. Our love is a cosmic whirlpool of destruction? It doesn’t get more romantic than that.