When Jamie and I first began dating, he warned me to never expect flowers. Not never-never, just not to expect them on prime flower-expecting days. Like birthdays. Or anniversaries. Or Valentine's Day. Or other Hallmark holidays. He told me that it wasn't his style to be so cliche (it's not), and he'd rather surprise me with random flowers (very interesting choices) on random occasions (Happy Survival of Your First Major Media Event, anyone? How about I Know You're Scared To Have Your Uterus Removed, But I Promise It Will Be Okay? Hallmark's got nothing on my boy).
So yesterday afternoon, after having walked in the door 15 minutes prior, when I noticed blossoms peeking from behind the flat-screen TV (not only does J make the giving of the flowers a surprise, but also the finding of the flowers), I was — and I wasn't — surprised.
I wasn't surprised that he knew just what I needed, just when I needed it. I wasn't surprised that even though he knew there was a good chance I would already have a headache, and would likely burst into tears yet again upon seeing flowers from him, he took the chance anyway. I wasn't surprised that he took the time to choose healthy flowers with plenty of buds so they would continue to open and last as long as possible. I wasn't surprised that instead of roses or mums or daisies, he chose lilies. I wasn't surprised that he knows that when I buy flowers for the house, I choose bold and vibrant shades that match our decor, but because these were for me, he picked pink. I wasn't surprised that he put them in my favorite vase, or that he knows which one is my favorite.
I was surprised, however, at my reaction. It never fails to amaze me that no matter how much in love I am with my husband, he always — always — makes me love him more.