Peter and I have been together for almost five years. In the beginning, there were grandiose gestures of love happening all the time. There were monthly anniversary celebrations: getting dressed up for multi-course dinners capped off with the presentation of a sparkly piece of jewelry or a box of pricey chocolates. There were weekend breakfasts in bed devoured closer to noon. There were hours spent on primping for dates that lasted all day long. Bottles of champagne were glugged (Blogger is telling me "glugged" isn't a word. I disagree). Bouquets of flowers were delivered to my office. Fancy underthings were picked out and flaunted.

These days, date night is more likely to mean curling up under a blanket on the couch to eat cookies and watch a DVD. And more often than not, we pass out before the movie is over, ears cocked to pick up the first peep out of the baby monitor that's always hovering nearby like an annoying chaperone. These days, 7:15 is considered sleeping in. A glass of wine is responsibly sipped, never glugged, and only after the baby has gone to bed for the evening. Fancy underthings are on hold until further notice and "primping" is not even in my vocabulary anymore.

Last night I stumbled into Eli's room at some ungodly hour to feed him. A few seconds later, Peter came in to put a blanket over us and brought me a glass of water.

Sitting in the rocking chair, dressed in the opposite of fancy underthings, looking and feeling like death warmed over and barely able to keep my eyes open, was one of the times I've felt most loved. A blanket, a glass of water, a kiss on the forehead from my husband, a sleepy smile from a hungry little boy at 3AM. Love is different for us these days, but it's still here.