I mean, sure, I can't take my half out of the middle of the bed anymore (mostly because he already does) and we've discovered that, thanks to night-breath, only one of us at a time can face the middle of the bed. I've rolled over into his hand, there's the occasional kneeing, but for the most part we're just fine. Well, we're just fine now that I'm back on my side of the bed. He tried to claim it, but I sleep on my side, facing the edge of the bed, and it turns out I get no sleep if I'm on my right side.
Those are little things, though, and are far outweighed by everything else. He cleans. He helps with the laundry in clearly defined ways (RIP, grey cashmere sweater). He kills bugs. He makes me toast when I'm getting ready for church, without me even asking. He'll hop out of bed to get me anything I need, even though I refuse to ask him to because it makes me feel like a jerk. If something tastes good, it's "perfect," and when it doesn't taste good, there's no complaining (from him; I criticize my cooking freely). He lets me be a little crazy, but will rein me in before I go too far. He doesn't get weirded out when I cry for no good reason.
I could go on. Suffice it to say I love the kid, and I'm glad I let him talk me into getting married.
Photo courtesy of my brother and his cell phone