Five years ago. We said ‘I do’. For better or worse. Yup. Totally. That is what I signed up for. And I am forever grateful. Grateful that I found him. And grateful that he loved me for me. The good. The bad. The cray cray. Phew. 

And I love my Mr Perfect. Oh-so much. I could bang on about how fabulous he is all day long. Because he is. But instead. I’m going to share a few things about him that make my eye twitch. Those little-annoying-but-kinda-cute-irky-quirky-ugh things. 

He squeezes the toothpaste from right at the end or the middle. So everytime I have to use it, I have to squeeze it all down from the top to get some out. Sheesh.

He may put the toilet seat down. Thank you. But in the middle of the night I swear he aims for the floor. Or occasionally the wall. Or just anywhere. Except the toilet. Ew.

He helps with the dirty dishes. By putting them close to the sink. Or close to the dishwasher. Not in. Nope. Not ever. He never makes it. Sometimes close. Mere centimetres. Sigh.

Same attitude to dirty clothes. Generally more ‘Meh. That’ll do’. But not even close to the clothes hamper. Just on the floor. Not even in a pile. A sock here. A sock there. Stuff everywhere. And that’s where they stay. Until I pick them up. Or nag him until he can take no more.

He can never ever find anything in the pantry. He looks for a good two seconds. And then tells me ‘we are out’. It’s generally right in front of him. In plain sight. I pride myself on a somewhat neat-uncluttered-organised panty. Everything has a place. The same place. Dedicated areas for everything. I tell him exactly where it is like a Game of Battleship. “Line 1 Position 4”. He rustles. He crackles. He crinkles. He shuffles. He huffs. He puffs. ‘Nope. It’s not there’. It always is. He just does a man-look. Every. Single. Time.

When he helps with the washing. He mixes lights and darks together. And then does a hot wash. Oh good gawd. Breaks me. Every time. We now have a lot of formerly-white-now-grey-blue-pink-brown-yuck clothes.

I have never ever heard some crinkle-crackle-rustle a packet to get something out more than he does. It is epic. It is loud. It is like he is wrestling a group of midgets in a packet. Chips. Nuts. Chocolate. Bread. Anything in a packet. And he only ever gets one out at a time. Then it starts again. Ding-crinkle-crackle-ding. Wrestle-mania round two. Just put the chips in a bowl. Seriously. In. A. Bowl. Save us all.

When he is sick. Time stands still. Nobody should move. Nobody should breath. Nobody should make a noise. And nobody has every been as sick as him. We think it is touch and go every time. We may loose him. Thankfully he has not contracted any killer-death-sniffles as yet. Phew.

He sleeps on top of the top sheet. Even after I tell him to get under the top sheet because he is squishing me under the top sheet. I’m comfy. And it’s close enough he tells me. Ha. Ok. I can’t breath. Or move. But yes. Close enough.

He blows his nose like an old man. Super loud. Super long. And occasionally on napkins. The cloth. Even in restaurants. Honk honk hooooooooooonk.

He is obsessed with watching the weather. And telling me how much rain we should/will/did get. ‘5mL today toots’ or ‘We are in for 20mL today toots. Don’t drive into floodwater.’
But on a day when the skies are angry grey and I say ‘It’s going to rain today I’ll hang the washing inside’. He tells me while waving his phone at me with a blotchy map of some sort ‘No it’s not toots. The BOM doesn’t show any rain. See see’. Five minutes later I say nothing while he about like a headless chook in the rain getting the washing off the line.

To be fair. I know there are things that I do that totally make his eye twitch....

That I watch The Bachelor. And love it.
That I watch The Bachelorette. And he loves it. 
That I buy pyjamas for him. But end up wearing them myself.
Same goes for jumpers
That I put a top sheet on the bed.
That I nag about sleeping on top of the top sheet.
That I wear a sports bra and worn out nanna knickers.
That I’m always on a diet. Planning a diet.
Or talking about planning a diet.
That I don’t like steak.
That I don’t cook steak.
That I have minimal sympathy for him when he is sick.
And none when he is hungover.
That I always change my outfit even when he tells me I look beautiful.
That I freak out big time if we are ever running late.
And by late. I mean not at least 15 minutes early. 

All jokes aside, the list of things we love and adore about each other far out way the irks.
And the ughs. And the eye rolls.

He is the best dad.

The best husband.

My best friend.

He loves me unconditionally.
He loves our girls with all his heart.
He puts the rubbish out. Every time.
And scoops up all the dog poo. Phew.

All those little things that irk me.
They are totally endearing.
And I wouldn’t want him any other way.
They actually make me love him even more.

He is the love of my life.