Daily, I recount how hashtag #blessed I am to have found the person that I was meant to be with. The incredible dad, the biggest fan, the best supporter, the one with the exact same sense of humor – and the list could go on and on.
Aside from the irrational arguments that occur when I’m hangry, or being irrational pregnant ranting, about my loathing of everything bagels, we don’t argue about anything substantial, or really disagree on things (except for a third baby name).
Every couple of weeks, I’ll cut up a loaf of french bread to make croutons. Every couple of weeks, he will loudly question why we just don’t buy a bag of croutons from Costco. Every couple of weeks he will tell me I’m crazy and threatens to buy the bag of croutons from Costco because making them at home is crazy.
But, he never buys them.
I keep making them. They taste better, they make the house smell delicious and we’ve always got ends of crusty bread that aren’t suitable for sandwiches, on a Sunday afternoon.
He calls me crazy.
Over and over again.
And this? This is the reason that I’m always going to smile fondly when I think about homemade croutons.