Trevor and I are both romantics. We enjoy all the cliche romantic things - candlelit dinners, long walks, poetry, roses. And because we are both romantics, we give each other license to be romantic, and never laugh at our efforts, or are ever cynical.
Musée National du Moyen Age, climbed the winding, ancient turret steps to the research library. I furiously read, took notes, photocopied, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute. Trevor spent his time hopping on the metro, running about to museums. But in the evening, we met again and had romantic dinners. Because of said romantic dinners, our budget only allowed for the cheapest of hostels. Not the stuff of romance, but many memories. We enjoyed the evening life in Paris, and reveled in our new marriage.
Our life right now leaves only a tiny space for romance. Now is full of the earthy parts of life. Raising littles is messy, chaotic, usually hilarious. But not really romantic. This pregnancy is enough to suck the romance out of life. I'm spending a lot of time throwing up, lying down, feeling miserable, sometimes crying on my spouse's shoulder.
Trevor has stepped up in a huge way. He is taking care of me. He has not complained, not once, about making dinner (again), or my retreating to bed as soon as he gets home, taking full responsibility of the girls when he's home. He has sacrificed sleep, his precious free time, and energy to try to make life easier for me.
We may not be enjoying romance, but I am seeing the fruits of true marriage. Of true love. He loves me even though I'm as fun as a pregnant hippo (and as huge). We enjoy each other, and still find time to laugh together. There is poetry in that.