Hope
When she was a little girl, her mother always told her to hope for the best and expect the worst, and it was good advice, because with him, both happen on almost a daily basis.
For example, some mornings she might wake up to see the room looking distinctly as though their closet had thrown up from an hour of his poking and diving through it (despite wearing the same thing every day), but when she returned that evening, dreading the task of cleaning up, she'd find the room immaculate. And if she opened the closet door to find everything shoved haphazardly inside, well, it was the thought that counted, right?
Another morning, she might wake up to fresh coffee and breakfast already made – made well, which had come as no small shock the first time – and then return in the evening to find his entire workshop moved into their bedroom, just for a couple days, until I can clean up from that explosion.
She realizes that her concept of the best and the worst have become a little skewed, but it's almost a relief, to know that trivial little things can still alternately irritate and thrill her.