Love is . . . not hollywood.

I awoke the other morning thinking about love.
And our perceptions of love.
And what shapes those perceptions.

I should mention it was a Wednesday.
Trash day.
But more on that later.

I learned about love mostly by watching my parents.
My children learn by watching me . . .
and watching TV, and movies, and listening to "love" songs on the radio.
Children are more plugged in now than ever before, and everything from cartoons to commercials will invariably have some influence on them.

I try very hard to make sure they understand that love is not Hollywood. There's no script, no stunt double, and no yelling "cut" if you don't like the way things are going.

Yes, love can be action/adventure. It can be a comedy. And at times it's all high drama.
But real love is most often found in the mundane.

Back to trash day.

My husband loves me. I know this because every Wednesday morning at O'dark thirty he takes out the trash so I don't have to. I hear the low rumble as he wheels the bins down the driveway - all from the toasty warm comfort of my bed.

He has never had a date set to meet me at the top of the Empire State Building.

We didn't fall in love through anonymous love letters written over the years.

He has never taken a bullet, arrow, or sword for me. (Depending on that weeks family movie night genre.)

But he loves me.
He fills my car with gas.
He works a long hard and often dangerous job, so I can stay home with the girls.
He mows the lawn.
He fixes what's broken.
He steps on the spiders.

It's true, he's never saved me from a sinking ship in the middle of iceberg infested waters.
But in fifteen years of marriage he has never once forgotten to put the toilet seat down.

That's real.

That's love.

And it's better than any movie could ever be.