The day it all began

Fourteen years ago today, as the early morning sun came up over the Wasatch mountains, the Husband and I were married.

We were young, dumb, and oh-so-in love. He was 21, and I had just turned 20. We had a whirlwind courtship that surprised no one around us. It just felt right. It was meant to be.

As I look back on the last 14 years, I am struck by depth of my heart that he still holds today. If I had known just how lucky I was on that spring day, I would have shaken that 20-year-old girl with a bad perm and told her that this was the first day of the rest of her life. I would have told her that everything she knew about herself to that point would grow and change over the next few years. I would have warned her that she would move somewhere beyond the life she had known, and that it would challenge her to do things she had never done or even dreamed of.

For him. This skinny, shy boy that came along quite by accident.

Him, the boy she loved with all of her inexperienced heart.

But we can't go back and tell ourselves to appreciate it, can we? All we can do is look back and smile at the memories and moments that now make up our history together. And laugh at him because he can't remember half of them.

Like the pans and pans of peanut butter bars I made in the cinder block one-bedroom apartment, and how we wondered why both of us were gaining so much weight.

And the quiet drives up the canyon in the white VW Fox, where we planned and dreamed of our future together.

Or the roller blades we thought would be so practical in Minnesota, and how we only used them twice.

But the memories that most fill my mind are the ones we have made as parents, and as a family. I could not have known what an amazing father you would be. You have made our babies your entire world. You gave up golf, a hobby you loved, because you couldn't bear to spend a whole Saturday away from us.

You are a man who walks in the door, never needing to unwind after a hard day at work. You want us. You've missed us. You are not only ready to just be with your family, but you crave it. We know that we are your whole world, and our children are better for it. Your first thought after a long business trip is of me, and providing me with a break from the kids. It's you half the time who suggests a girl's night out. You, who happily takes off work so I can get away for a few days with my girlfriends.

Your unselfish nature is but the tip of the iceberg.


I love that you would do anything for me, if it made me feel pretty. I want new clothes? Go for it. Make-up and makeovers? Whatever I want. Shopping sprees? You deserve it, baby, you say. I know how lucky I am.

I just want you to know that I know it.

I don't always show my gratitude. I know it's hard to hear me complain when you're in another state, working 90-hour weeks for nightmare clients, and I'm whining about trivial, everyday stuff. Problems you'd love to have right at that moment. But to your credit, you take a deep breath, and tell me how sorry you are that I'm feeling that way, and ask what you can do to help.


You never complain or look disgusted when you walk in the door and I've got yesterday's matted ponytail and a pair of sweats on. You smile, hug me, and make me feel as though I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.

You are always supportive of how I spend my time, even when it's going to daytime movies by myself, reading novels, or spending time blogging. I wonder if the tables were turned, could I be as big a person as you are? Could I work so hard knowing this person was being less productive than they could be?

Whatever I do, whatever I say, I am grateful. I am grateful that you support me staying at home. I am grateful that you never question how I spend my time. I am grateful that you love our kids. I am grateful that you love me, in spite of my many flaws. I am so grateful that you were able to look past the fuzzy hair, terrible clothes, and neurotic insecurities 14 years ago and take me as your wife, your partner. I cannot imagine my life without you.

Chiche though it may sound, you really do complete me.


I love you more today than I could have imagined on that early spring morning. Here's to many more years of adventure, laughs, and growth.

I love you,

Your little Stie

But he had no legs with which to kick the bucket

Remember the worst birthday gift ever given by another child? The one that came in the mail and said "LIVE TADPOLE" on the box?

Well, our little pet, Sir Croaks-A-Lot has finally croaked.

And not the kind of croaking that says he was a healthy, full-grown frog ready to live free in the wild.

He literally croaked.

Chase made the discovery late last night and spent over an hour in tears. He cried, and sobbed, and wondered what he did wrong. I assured him over and over that he was the best pet owner that ever lived, and told him it was just Sir Croaks-A-Lot's time.

Truth be told, that stupid tadpole never did anything that he was supposed to do. The paperwork that came with him said he would lose his tail within two to four weeks, and that he would happily eat his food every day.

Well, three months later he still had a tail and no legs.

And I think he ate very little, though Chase fed him every day.

Whatever the cause, we are mourning that smelly, green friend.

Chase woke up early today and constructed a headstone to mark the grave:
Sir Croaks-A-Lot will spend his final days resting in an Anne Klein watch box, buried in a place of prominence in our backyard. I am praying a squirrel doesn't decide to dig it up in a week or two. I don't think they could handle the horrors.
Chase delivered a rousing eulogy in which he spoke of Sir Croaks-A-Lot's many virtues. Apparently, he was a really good listener and always tried hard to swim his best.

After Chase's tear-filled words, he picked a single yellow flower from the neighbor's yard and gently laid it on the headstone.

I prayed they weren't looking.

One last final wave to the little pet that failed to thrive:

We followed the funeral with a light luncheon at the bar in our kitchen. Chase chose to honor Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory by eating leftover green pancakes that I thoughtfully made this morning for St. Patrick's Day, I mean, Sir Croaks-A-Lot.

He was somber, but still managed to get through. He really seemed to enjoy his pancake peanut butter sandwich.

I really seemed to enjoy knowing there were no live animals in my house anymore.
Not willing to miss an opportunity for a special treat, McKay suggested we make frog cookies in Sir Croaks-A-Lot's memory.

Is it possible to think he just wanted cookies? Nah. Couldn't be.

Chase put on his brave face and managed to decorate and eat quite a few little frogs.

[We promise never to do this in your honor if any of you die.]

And now, behold the only pets we will ever have again:
Plastic ones. They don't eat, stink, pee, poo.

Or, most importantly, die.

RIP, little stinky green thing.

If only I had something to write about

I have reached the end of my creative brain cells. Sad, isn't it?

I am at a blogging standstill.

I got nuthin'.

Seriously. I can't even spell anymore.

I suppose I could write and tell you all about the two-hour bike ride to the park that I made my kids take yesterday.

I chose a path that was "too hilly" according to them and they kept getting off to walk their bikes up the hills that were apparently uphill both ways. Barefoot. In the snow.

That's their version anyway.

I could tell you about the behind-kicking workout I had this morning and how I don't think I'll walk for a week. But nobody (not even me) wants to hear about that.

So instead, I will leave you with a little weekend gratitude list:

I am thankful for an upcoming night out with the Husband sans kids tonight.

I am thankful for the Queen B and the fabulous book I won in a contest over at her blog. I never win anything; it made my whole day. You should go now and read her blog, if for no other reason, but to see pictures of her big, hairless cat. Makes me laugh just thinking about it. Plus, she still has her brain cells and is always very funny.

I am thankful for birds chirping right outside my window. Big, fat robins. What do these guys eat? Shouldn't they still be lean and scrawny from the winter? They're like guinea pigs with little stick legs - they're just huge.

I am thankful for spring break because it means I can sleep in every day and ignore the children and their pleas for Eggo waffles at the unholy crack of dawn.

I am thankful for a husband who is finally home for a day or two.

I am thankful for an upcoming mini-holiday with the Husband and kidlets (and hopefully an old friend. Come on, Em. You know you want to come and meet us!).

I am thankful for Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, even though they are the devil.

I am thankful for deodorant. Seriously, what would we do without it?

I am thankful for blogging.

I am thankful for blogging so I can look all busy and not have to help certain children find tiny lost Polly Pocket shoes. "Oh, sorry. Mommy is working on the computer right now. Come back later if you still need help."

I am thankful for boring Saturdays where we're all so healthy and fulfilled that we have nothing better to do than play in the basement while listening to soundtracks from action movies. Sometimes no news in life is good news.

What about you? What are you thankful for on this Saturday?

And if you see my brain, send it home. Tell it I'm sorry. Tell it I might really need to use it one of these days, and I promise to let it have the remote and drink some of my diet coke. But I won't give it my side of the bed. There are some things that must remain sacred.

A letter from a hopeful customer

Dear Quaker Rice Cakes,

Last night after an exhausting day spent mothering, nurturing, feeding, and driving my three children to school, scouts, ballet, and home again, I was tired and hungry.

I am trying (somewhat eagerly) to lose a few pounds. I recently picked up some of your delicious-looking rice cake snacks at my local Sam's Club. I bought them in bulk (which was a gamble on my part), trusting them to provide me with a tasty low-calorie snack. I took a risk, knowing that if nobody in the house liked them, we would be stuck with a large case of rice cakes.

And we don't have a dog to feed uneaten snacks to.

So while foraging through my pantry like a hungry raccoon, I saw two viable options with which to curb my nighttime craving. One, was a stale, half-eaten package of Oreo cookies (not really a good choice, I know); and the other was one of your rice cake snack bags. Really wanting the Oreos, but yet not wanting to find myself yelling at the scale in the morning, I resisted temptation and went with your rice cakes. The turning point in this decision came when I noticed a pretty little green rectangle in the top left corner of the bag, shouting out to me that the entire bag contained only 60 calories.

So I dug in. And I found myself really enjoying the crispy, crunchy, slightly chocolately snack. I thought to myself, "Damn! I need to buy these again." And you must know that I rarely swear in my mind.

Usually it's out loud.

I got about halfway through the package and started reading the bag. You know, because sometimes when snacking, one likes to have something to read. And I noticed, to my shock and horror, that the back of the package claimed that I was not consuming 60 little, itty-bitty calories; but that I was actually eating 110 calories.

I almost fell off the couch, I was that disturbed.

But I composed myself, and double checked.

Then I did fall off the couch.

The back side of the package DOES in fact claim that one entire bag of the mini-rice cakes contains 110 calories.

And yes, I am aware that sometimes tricky companies like to make you think you're eating less by posting the calories for a serving size, and there are often multiple servings in a given bag. But not yours. Yours says, one package, 110 calories (on the back). And 1 bag, 60 calories (on the front).

So which is it?

I have a solution for you. Since you seem to be unsure as to which is the correct number of calories, I offer this negotiation. How about we just go with the 60 calories then? Let's round down this time, instead of rounding up.

Because this little-too-late discovery put me in a bit of a spot. I had already eaten at least half of the bag. But I was already so addicted to the crunchy sweetness that I found myself unable to put down my half-eaten treat. And so I finished the entire bag, all the while praying they were truly the lower number.

So please, dear friends at Quaker, let's call it 60 calories. Just for me. And my scale. Do this, and we can part friends. Do it not, and I will be unable to buy this product again. Which would cost your company at least like ten dollars a month.

And just think, with my new 60-calorie best friend at my side, I could live to be well over 100, which gives me at least 66 more years as your loyal customer, netting you a minimum of $8,000 over my lifetime.

I think it's worth it. And I know you'll agree.

Your hopeful new friend,

Christie

Blog hopping today

I'm not here today. I've got a little product review up over here. One of my favorite bloggers, Jo-Lynne, at Musings of Housewife, asked me to review my favorite beauty product, which of course relates to hair. Check out what I had to say, and be sure to nose around both her sites. You'll enjoy them and come to love her as I have.

Go. Now. You, too, Daniel. I think your hair could use some work. Maybe this product will help.

Road rage

You know the scenario and have probably seen and done it a million times.

You're driving along - maybe in a hurry because you're running late - and somebody cuts you off. The frustration turns to sheer rage, and you futilely yell through your closed window at the person who just cut you off. Or maybe the highly unskilled driver drove in such a way that almost caused an accident, which was saved only by your excellent defensive driving skills, and you laid on your horn to let them know of your disgust. I'd even go out on a limb and wager that almost all of you have even raised that ubiquitous middle finger a time or two.

I'm ashamed to say I have.

Generally speaking, I am a rational driver. My "mild" OCD tendencies almost always have me heading out the door with time to spare, ensuring that my drives are smooth and even. The purchase of a car that came equipped with wireless headphones and a DVD player has left me with an immense amount of peace and quiet time from the children.

In short, my car rides are usually not rage-filled ones.

After leaving the race track of the California freeways behind me, I find myself quite at home here in the sleepy Midwest, where no one even goes the actual speed limit - they go below it. I try to not get annoyed when I'm stuck behind one of the locals, especially when I see that it's an elderly silver-haired poodle, nervously peeking up over the steering wheel.

The other day, I happened to witness the typical road-rage driver. A vehicle pulled out in front of a woman, and she laid on the horn, immediately accelerating to within inches of the bumper of the offending car. She raised her middle finger and furiously shouted expletives. She followed so closely behind this other car that I was bracing myself for the accident that was sure to happen.

And a few miles later, when she turned off onto another route, she made sure to let the other driver know she still had not forgiven them for causing her to hit that light exactly 1.2 seconds later than she otherwise would have.

Closer examination of the offending car revealed a sweet little elderly man in a black houndstooth fedora, driving with his wife by his side. [I don't know what it is about the fedora on an old man. LOVE. IT. Can't even stand how much I love it. Ahhh. I digress.]

But here was the cutest little couple - probably somebody's grandparents, for crying out loud - driving to the doctor's office, or the grocery store. Sheesh, they're just old. Let's cut them some slack.

I have been unable to shake the incident from my mind. I'm disturbed on several levels. What is it about feeling safe behind a pane of glass that allows our ugly selves to come out?

Just imagine being at the grocery store and someone cuts you off with their cart. You immediately start yelling, you flip them off, and you push your cart to within inches of their heels, all while yelling at them for being so stupid.

Can you imagine the horror?

Why then do we see that as a viable option when we're behind the wheel?

Have you ever honked and yelled at someone in your car, only to realize afterwards that you actually know them?

What possesses us to get so angry? What bravery we don when no one can talk back or even apologize.

I would just love to have everyone take a deep breath, realize we all have places to get to, and stop being so damn mad all the time. It's just pathetic. We're all human beings. In a society. What have we to be so upset about?

Discuss.