Today, ever-lovin' Andrew has turned into overly-stressed Andrew, meaning that every few minutes I hear a long gush of breath coming out him, a string of muttering (speckled with a few profanities), a head scratch, and silence. He has a twenty page paper due at midnight and I kind of envy him. I used to make my papers sing songs when I wrote them during crunch time.
A few days ago, we were sitting on the couch talking and Andrew reminded me of how, last year, I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted to paint one of our rented walls with black chalkboard paint. I was busy over analyzing the contract, quoting sections about how the only thing we couldn't do was make permanent changes and, as Andrew stood on top of a tarp holding a paint brush dripping with black paint, I kept asking whether painting a wall black was permanent (it's not). I'd felt a little lost since having Max and, as our debate escalated from casual conversation to a heated argument, Andrew turned to face me, held the paint brush up to the wall and calmly said, "What would you have done before having Max?" and, without receiving an answer, he painted a black streak down the whole wall. That man. He is good for me.