Meredith’s Musings

Tell Me Something Sweet | By Meredith McKinnie

He told me he loved me on a Saturday, three weeks to the day we’d met. We were standing in the short hallway of his 900 square foot apartment, under the faded fluorescent light beaming from the even tinier kitchen. I already knew it, but he said it. And I kissed him quickly, avoiding eye contact, as overly personal moments make me nervous. I returned the sentiment, and then I remember nothing from the next few hours, the blissful days of falling in love and then finding comfort in that sweet spot.

But when sleepovers became commonplace, when the most comfortable spot in the world became the crook of his arm, a tradition was born. I remember snuggling in to my spot, the side of my head below his right shoulder, my leg casually draped over his knee and shin, the easy way I fit there. I tilted my head up though I couldn’t see him in the darkness and simply said, “Tell me something sweet.” And he did. He told me I was strong and opinionated, and he meant them as compliments. He told me I was beautiful and he loved looking at me. He told me I made him want to be better, and that I taught him he deserved better. He thanked me for always making him feel wanted, and that one broke my heart a little.

And for years now, I’ve asked again and again, and he always indulges me. It’s our thing. His voice always drops a few octaves, almost a whisper, and frequently the response is, “I love you so much.” To which I ask, “How much?” as if he could tell me, as if he knows, as if it’s calculable, as if he could spread his arms wide enough. I don’t ask because I don’t already know, but because I don’t want the sentiment, the moment to end. So few moments are without distractions, and I relish them when they surface. I feel it’s my responsibility as half of a whole I cherish so deeply.

I read the other day that couples must talk about their relationship. This is our conversation, right before bed, in our safe place; he tells me something sweet. “There’s no one I’d rather have next to me,” he’ll say. Jokingly, my response is, “I’m the only one here.” We chuckle; we squeeze tighter; we press our lips together; the moment is ours. It’s not a performance. It’s not being judged. He’s not convincing anyone. He’s whispering his love to the woman he loves, and I’m lucky to be the woman in the room.

Sometimes I wake before him, and he sleeps so soundly, with one arm draped over his own chest or casually above his head. Our daughters sleep the same way. In their most peaceful moments they mirror the most peaceful of their parents. I love the way he loves them, not superhuman, but with patience and humor and an innate ability to de-escalate their little mini-dramas. Our two-year-old is, well, two, and is having Meredith moments, demanding her voice and her space and immediate gratification. “More Cheeeeeese,” she screams when one piece isn’t enough. Admittedly, I often yell back, “I said no.” But husband will quickly swoop her upside down and tickle her belly, making her forget all about her beloved cheese cubes. He has a way of moving the moment, shifting the narrative, and he does it so naturally, like it’s the most logical response to chaos.

Now, years later, I don’t necessarily have to hear him tell me something sweet because I get to see it every day. Occasionally at bedtime, after I’ve exhausted the three chapters I could cram in before my eyes become heavy and he has finished the daily New York Times crossword, we’ll cuddle together, my head on his chest. I now occupy his left side, a change we made during pregnancy that has just kind of stuck. I admire his profile and kiss his cheek, graze my nubby nails against his chest and remind him I love him. We talk about our daughters, the funny moments one of us inevitably missed in the parental trade-offs that happen when both of us are home. I usually doze first, but sometimes, minutes before drifting off, I’ll ask again, “Tell me something sweet.” Sometimes the answer is immediate, as if he is waiting, and other times he pauses to think. I rarely wait for the answer, instead drifting off in the safe slumber of knowing I’m in love with sweetness, and he couldn’t love us more if he tried.