Defining Romance

I'm a hormonal mess. I admit it. I shouldn't be reading romance novels in this state, but I can't help it. I'm chugging away at a book right now (and hope to have it finished before Fable3 comes out--YES, my deadline is a video game release, don't judge) and I need to keep the wordbank stocked. But it leads to this sort of scenario.

Husband: Honey, where's the... wait, are you crying?
Me: *lip quivering, tears spilling, but my back is turned to him* Um... no.
Husband: Yes, you are.
Me: *violently shakes head, unable to speak*
Husband: Look, I can tell because you are pregnant, you are sitting on the floor of the bathroom, you have eight thousand Milky Way wrappers strewn around you and there's a paperback romance next to you and it's opened to the end. Now. Are you crying?
Me: ...OMGYES *COPIOUS NOISY SOBBING*
Husband: Well. I'm glad that's cleared up. I'd comfort you, but I really gotta lose some weight, if you know what I mean. If you're still crying by the time I'm done I'll give you a hug.
Me: *bawls*

...Sometimes I have trouble writing romance because my definition of romance is very broad and includes my husband trying to talk me down from a romance novel-inflicted hormonal freak out while he's sitting on the can. If that's not love, I don't know what is, but it honestly doesn't come off very well in prose. Toilets just aren't sexy, I guess.

edit: I was not actually eating Milky Ways in the bathroom, I just took the wrappers in there with me to throw away and forgot in the throes of romantic climax. I was actually eating them on the bed, which is clearly much better. My name is Heather Howard and I am twelve years old.