I don’t feel lucky, most days. I hate the way he makes oatmeal leaving granules all over our new wood floors. I hate the way the oatmeal sloshes around his mouth after he shovels in giant spoonfuls before he hurries off to work or wherever. I hate the way the dried oatmeal sticks to the sides of our glass bowls after he half rinses them and lays them in the sink. But here’s the weirdest part – in spite of all of that, I most certainly still love him.