I mean, really. You love them. You cherish them. Often you give them children. I didn't, you know. I gave him cats. But still. A gift is a gift.
He wakes me up in the middle of a nap to ask if I like the shape of his new glasses. Or to ask where his wallet is. Or the keys to the car. 
It continues to be a bafflement as to where the dishes go in the cabinets, even though he has been unloading the same dishwasher in the same kitchen for the past 11 years and I haven't rearranged anything since we moved in.
He never tells me when he uses the last roll of TP. Or the last of the milk. Which I finally trained him NOT to drink from the carton. So I recognize the need to be grateful for small things.
Rita Rudner, a wonderful stand-up comedienne, once said men are bears with furniture. Mine even scratches his back on the door frame of the kitchen. Sometimes he growls. But I absolutely adore him. Can't imagine my life without him. And that, my friends, could be why I write mysteries.