If I were a husband, I would get it right.

I would ensure that my wife knew she was loved.

I would kiss her every morning and bring her coffee precisely to her taste.

I would listen intently, even when she interrupts my news reading to discuss any of the numerous mindless topics on her brain.

I would praise her for the selfless and tiring effort she puts in day after day to take care of our children, maintain our home, care for our pets, succeed at her job and support her community.

I would acknowledge, affirm and applaud the difference she is making in our home with our family, at our children's schools where she volunteers, at work where she beasts any task she is assigned and in the lives of those around her -- friends, acquaintances, and strangers.

I would make her laugh.

I would aid in keeping the house tidy.

I would help with laundry.

I would put up with any tone she delivered, and I'd forgive any misspoken words.

I would remind her of just how beautiful she looks all of the time.

I would kiss her goodnight, every night, and then go to bed and lie there reminding myself of how thankful I am for her.

But, I am not a husband.

I am a wife, and I don’t always get it right.

I try to ensure that my husband knows he is loved, but the challenges, anxieties, and stresses of motherhood, well, they often distract me from such.

With exhaustion to blame and a usual mode of auto-pilot, I typically don’t recognize that my husband kisses me every morning, or that he brings me my coffee just as I like it.

When he applauds me for how our children are growing up, I usually find a way to chastise him for not glorifying me enough, or with the right tone, or in the way I desired, at that moment.

I often take his jokes, quips and attempts to lighten my load with humor, as jabs in my direction and as his effort to detour away from serious conversation.

When he helps with the housework, more often than not I condemn him for leaving me to care for the kids, yet again.

I then repeatedly disturb his open line of communication with inappropriate modulation hindering any chance of having a fruitful conversation.

When he attempts to tell me how attractive I am, I scoff at his mockery; how could a man find this witchy, unshowered, messy, drained and anxiety-ridden woman attractive?

So, I just go to bed, with a half kiss to the hubby and complain to myself about how our relationship could be better.

I guess we are lucky I am not a husband.

I guess we are lucky that I am a wife.

I guess the beautiful craziness of marriage and real and lasting love is that we’re not always going to get it right.

Do you know what is right, though?

Nothing is more right than two people, day in and day out, putting in, not just minimal, careless effort, but thought-out, purposeful effort.

Be grateful that you have a husband who, despite his flaws, quirks, and what you believe to be his perceived shortcomings, loves you enough to see past yours.

Hug your husband a little tighter tonight, and maybe even lie in bed for a few minutes thinking to yourself how thankful you are for him.