In the middle of the night, when the weight of my growing womb presses my left hip painfully into the bed, his hand finds mine.

He is rarely contented to kiss my mouth; he must kiss my forehead also.

He calls me "Babes." "My babes." "Honey buns." Occasionally now, succinctly: "Buns."

In the car, we have heated discussions about NPR features, and screech Taylor Swift songs together.

With my knees curled under, nestled into the corner of the couch, I watch Smallville or Parenthood or Call the Midwife next to him. Usually it happens that one or the other of us will end the evening resting our heads on the other's chest.

Every morning, dressed and coiffed, I slip into the dark room and kiss him awake, tell him I love him, and say goodbye. He is wrapped into a swirl of blue and brown sheets and pillows and blankets, and his sleepy face always reminds me of a kitten. And every night, he extinguishes every light but one, bending over my yawning form, kisses my face and my belly, and wraps his arms around me as he prays over us before he returns to his book.

These tendernesses pierce me every day.

How did it happen, I ask myself. How did this life, this warmth find me?