It’s the Little Things

For the most part, I’m not a romantic. At least not in the traditional way. Boxed candies and florist flowers won’t woo me. Jewelry in the shape of a heart makes me cringe. But catch my man singing to one of our cats — that turns me to mush every time.

So, yeah. I’m frequently mush.

To me, there’s something about the little things that can make them seem bigger than expensive grand gestures. The small, thoughtful actions that show more than tell. That whisper rather than yell.

For instance, not long ago, I ran to the laundromat while Don was home, finishing a freelance job. When I was about halfway finished, he showed up carrying a cup of hot tea, which he had made at home and driven over to me. We live close to the laundry, so it only took about 15 minutes total, but it made my day.

He’s a man of constant kindness. And I know how lucky I am.

My daughter is lucky with her man as well.

Celeste is now 26 and lives in Statesville, NC. Last summer, she was scheduled to have foot surgery, so I drove down to be with her, figuring I’d take full advantage of her being hobbled so I could do the mom thing for a bit, until she was back on at least one of her feet again.

Both Celeste and her longtime boyfriend Brock work nights. Since both had just finished a 12-hour shift the day of her surgery, she encouraged him to go home and sleep since I was there to drive her. The poor guy was clearly exhausted but couldn’t be dissuaded from going with us. We knew it would be an all-day affair, with her knocked out and us waiting around in uncomfortable hospital chairs, but he loves my girl. Wouldn’t leave her.

A night or two later, I was dozing off down the hall to the sound of them talking in the living room. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, just the tones of it. Like background music. Talking and laughing and talking some more. Accustomed to night shift, their clocks are different from mine, so I would drift off and wake again and they would still be gabbing away. Still laughing. If he had covered her room in rose petals and lit it with a hundred candles, it couldn’t have seemed more romantic than how the two of them sounded to me.

I suppose my perspective might have come from how I was raised. My parents were practical people, even when it came to showing they cared. For instance, in the winter, Mom would go out and heat up Dad’s station wagon, so he didn’t have to scrape ice off the windshield or climb in a cold car. And if he knew she had to go somewhere, he would make sure to fill her car’s tank because the smell of gasoline would sometimes cause her to cough.

They took care of each other. Looked for ways they could lighten the other’s load.

Perhaps these little gestures seem more romantic because it shows the partner has been paying attention.

Don knows I get anxious over having to back my truck out of certain places, so he will sneak out and back it in for me, enabling me to pull straight out when I leave

It costs nothing. Takes next to no time. Leaves me feeling loved. (I imagine my truck’s grateful, too.)

I have a friend whose job, for many years, required her to endure once-a-month meetings that were always contentious and left her frustrated and angry and even sometimes in tears. Her husband picked up on the pattern and on the nights of those meetings, she would come home to ambient music playing, a glass of wine at the ready, and a hot bath being drawn. The house would be clean and dinner cooking. Instead of dreading those meetings, she said she began to look forward to them because she knew what was waiting for her at the end.

To know someone is thinking about you and wants to make your life better in some way, even small — that’s romantic.

Perhaps not in a flashy Hollywood way, but it is.