(My husband’s family does not believe in breastfeeding a baby beyond the first couple of weeks. I am determined to breastfeed for at least the first six months. We are visiting my husband’s parents and I have taken our one-month-old daughter into a bedroom to feed her. I hear my husband’s brother arrive and greet my husband.)

Brother: “Are you alone? Where’s [My Name]?”

Husband: “No, she’s in the bedroom, feeding [Daughter].”

Brother: *loudly* “Is she still feeding [Daughter]?”

Husband: “It’s not like [Daughter] can get her own food yet.”

Brother: “That’s not what I meant.”

Husband: “So, what exactly did you mean? That [My Name] has no right to feed her baby the most natural way there is?”

Brother: “Point taken.”

(That was the last time I heard anything more about my choice of feeding my children.)

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(My wife and I are chatting with a friend of ours in the living room. We’re all on the couch, talking about my wife’s recent phone upgrade.)

Wife: “When [My Name] calls, it’s this really cutesy ringtone I found about gumdrops and stuff.”

Friend: “Romantic. What about when you call her?”

Wife: *calls me*

My Phone: *long, loud Wookie yell*

([Friend] bursts out laughing. My wife lays her head on my shoulder.)

Wife: “Yup, so romantic. That’s us!”

Me: “Also, when you text my phone goes—” *plays burp tone*

Wife: “Just so romantic!”

(Our friend says we’re made for each other. We agree!)

Me: “[Friend] and I are forming a book club.”

Wife: “Who?”

Me: “[Friend, who I’ve known since childhood].”

Wife: *mumbles something*

Me: “What?”

Wife: “Sounds like a couple of losers.”

Me: “Would a couple of losers be reading something called Eaters Of The Dead by Michael Crichton?”

Wife: “Actually, yes.”

(I have PTSD from being in a severe car accident as a child that resulted in a traumatic brain injury. I am mostly recovered and normal as an adult. I prefer to have my wife drive on days when my PTSD is acting up. There’s just this one thing: when she’s driving and sneezes, she grips the wheel with a death grip, shuts her eyes tight, and shakes the wheel side-to-side, making the whole vehicle move side-to-side on the road. This is brown-pants-level terrifying for me. She thinks I’m being a baby about it. We have a dumb fight over it, and then get over it. The next week her parents are in town. Her father is driving us somewhere and he’s driving way above the speed limit. Suddenly, he sneezes, and in doing so, grips and shakes the wheel violently, which causes the vehicle to suddenly merge into a different lane.)

Wife: *with terror in her eyes* “Sorry about last week. You were right.”

A few years ago my husband I traveled from Ireland to the USA to complete a coast-to-coast road trip. One day we stopped for lunch in a restaurant that sold every variety of soda you can think of.

At the time, I had seen a lot of talk online about the Mexican version of a popular soda; people were going crazy over it because it apparently tasted so much better than the American version. The restaurant had the Mexican version in stock — at an inflated price of course — and I decided to order one to see what the fuss was about.

My drinks arrived and I took a sip, only to find it tasted exactly like the soda at home. I asked my husband to try it, too, and he said the same thing. That’s when I realised that the Mexican version of the soda is made with real cane sugar, just like in Ireland, and the American version is made with fructose corn syrup. I basically traveled all the way to America to pay through the nose for the same drink we can get at home! My husband still hasn’t let me live it down.