By Sarah Hauser
@sarah.j.hauser

Almost every morning, he brings me coffee. 

He sets the cup on my nightstand, and I grunt and roll over. I’ve never been one to start my day jumping out of bed with a smile. A few minutes later he squeezes my shoulder before walking downstairs, offering a gentle reminder that my beloved drink is getting cold.

Even on the rare day when I wake up before everyone else, I know the coffee will be ready. The night before, he sets the pot to brew first thing in the morning. He puts my favorite mug next to it—the oversized one that will hold enough caffeine to keep me fueled for at least a few hours. 

On the weekends, our coffee gets fancier. He lays out the Chemex and a filter and has measured out the correct amount of beans. Whether it’s drip coffee timed for automatic brewing at 6:30 a.m. or the good stuff meticulously brewed on a Saturday morning, I’m rarely the one to make it. He’s always done that—a little “I love you” in the form of a steaming beverage.

***

We get the three little kids in bed after a few books, pajamas, brushing teeth, and plenty of reminders to put their clothes in the dirty laundry and go potty. Inevitably, child number three needs to go to the bathroom yet again as soon as he’s tucked under all his blankets. I’m sure he plans it that way. 

Then we head downstairs. Sometimes, I’m too worn out to do anything but crash on the couch. Other days, I pick up toys, wipe down the coffee table, and try to clean up enough to make space for the next day’s messes. 

He does the dishes. Always. It’s become a dance of sorts–him loading the dishwasher while I scoot by to throw trash away under the sink. He handwashes the Dutch oven, and I wipe bread crumbs and crusted sauce off the table. I stop cleaning long before he does. My feet hurt from the day, and I want to clock out. I pour a glass of wine, find my favorite plush red blanket, and sink into the cushions on the sofa. He keeps washing.

“Stop doing the dishes and come sit down!” I often have to say. It’s a nice problem to have. But he sees the weariness in my eyes, hears the exhaustion in my voice. And he knows the next day will be a little easier for me with the counter clear and the sink empty. 

He puts the final few dishes in the dishwasher, grinds the beans for the next day’s coffee, and puts the dinner leftovers in the refrigerator. “I’m coming,” he responds. “I just want you to have a clean kitchen in the morning.” 

***

When we brought our twins home from the hospital six years ago, I remember breastfeeding them on the couch. My sister was there, and I sat in the corner with a giant nursing pillow strapped under me, a hospital-grade pump nearby, and two babies next to me. We chatted about where to put everything—two bouncers, piles of diapers, toys, pump parts, extra bottles. We made a little changing area on the main level with extra onesies for blowouts and plenty of wipes, so I didn’t have to constantly go upstairs while my body healed from a C-section. 

The piles of baby stuff grew like weeds in various corners of the house, and my husband tried to put them away. I had set out a pile of clean burp cloths, because nursing two babies—one with reflux—yields a whole lot of spit up. While I (not-so-successfully) fed one baby after another, he asked, “Where can these go?” 

He held up the white stack of cloths and a pack of diapers. “Right there,” I said, pointing to the floor next to the couch—where they just were. I can still see his face, tired and somewhat dumbfounded that we had just set a pile of stuff on the floor and called that “put away.” At least for those first couple weeks, I knew putting away things like burp clothes, blankets, and diapers was useless. I was not about to walk upstairs to the babies’ room every single time I needed a rag. We’d need them at the ready, an arsenal of newborn gear in every room to carry us through those early days. 

My sister and I chuckled at his expense, and I still tease him about it now. Neither of us had any idea of the piles that would eventually invade our home—piles of LEGOs, piles of laundry, piles of books, piles of dirty dishes. Still, he never complains. We both appreciate a clean house, but I’m quicker to give that up for the sake of rest. He’s quick to give me that rest by clearing the clutter. 

So he keeps picking up the piles, putting them away, and then moving on to the next one.

***

Our lives aren’t what some people would consider romantic. We don’t do much that’s extravagant or fancy. We love a nice date night out, but most of the time we’re just as happy ordering takeout and sipping on a $6.99 Cabernet from the comfort of our own family room. We’re homebodies normally—and even more so during this pandemic season. 

One thing that hasn’t changed over ten years of marriage is how this man I married serves our family every day—through the work he does, the dishes he washes, the coffee he makes, the piles and piles he tidies—even after I’ve labeled many of those tasks futile. 

But he’s not deterred. My husband couldn’t stop serving people even if he tried. It’s who he is, down to his core, someone who deeply cares and loves others even when no one notices. He just keeps brewing, cleaning, serving. 

I too easily overlook these little acts of love. I take them for granted, and my cynical, pessimistic self sometimes can only see a floor half full of toys instead of noticing a room that’s already been halfway cleaned up thanks to him. I forget the love said through a cup of coffee or overlook the fact that he threw in another load of laundry before joining me for a movie.

When we were first married, I had no idea what these small acts of service would someday mean to me. But after ten years of marriage, three kids, and countless messes in our home, these kindnesses have become a constant, the pulse to our days I’m not sure I could live without. They’ve been as reliable as he is, regular reminders of love shown in a thousand little ways. 

Photo by Lottie Caiella.