Fifteen

Fifteen years ago today, at the literal crack of dawn, you and I became us. We became a family. We clasped our shaky hands together and took our first step out into the world. Together.

I can still remember the first time I saw you. I was supposed to be going out with someone else that night, but when my eyes met yours, something whispered, "Hello, old friend."

I knew in that fraction of a second what would be.


Yes, that skinny, naive, 21-year-old boy, in Doc Martens, dress shirt coming untucked (something that still manages to happen today), walked in the door and forever stole my heart. The heart that was probably his to begin with.

I wonder, though. Would you do it all over again, if you could? Would you have taken a chance on that girl with the bad perm and the waist-high jeans? Even if you knew that she'd be really mean when she was pregnant? Or that she'd have a rear end the size of Texas during that time?

What if you'd known that she likes to spend money? And most especially YOUR money? Would you have still stayed that first night until the wee hours, playing cards, and flirting across the table, knowing the fortune she'd someday spend at Target?

And what if someone had told you that she squeezes the toothpaste in the middle, and will not, under any circumstances, drink the last little bit from the milk carton? Even then, would you still take her? Her, and all her neuroses?

I know one thing, I'd do it all again, a million times over. I might do a few things differently though.

Like that first anniversary? I'd have been a little more creative, that's for sure. Even with only a dollar to my name, I'd have done better. [Remind me, Internets, to tell you that story sometime. It's a doozy.]

And I'd try harder to let you know just how much I appreciate you and all that you do for me. Because you? You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I'd never want to let a day go by where you didn't know it.

You are my best friend.

You are the one I need to tell things to before they become real. You are the voice of reason to my irrational hysteria. You are the one I turn to for comfort. You are the one who tells me I'm beautiful, even when I don't believe it. You are the one I want to share every joke and every laugh with. You are the one who knows me better than anyone. And you are the one who constantly says that nothing is impossible.

You, my darling, are the ring in my bell.

Happy 15th anniversary, babe.

Of trash and treasures

Last week, I decided to tackle a much-needed project in our house.

Specifically, a project that involved the place where the little people in our house live.

A place where I spent four and a half hours of my time, and uttered more than a few four-letter words.

I tried to let it be. I have ignored these spaces for as long as possible. Plugged my ears, closed my eyes, and sang, "la la la la la la" when walking past those rooms. I wanted to let them have a measure of control over their own lives, and learn the responsibility of cleaning up after themselves. But when I feared the board of health would quite possibly condemn us (and cart me off to bad mother prison), I knew action had to be taken.

I had to do this while they are at school because I don't like it when they sob, whine, and plead as I toss all their beloved treasures junk into the trash.

And you better believe there was a lot of junk.

Like three garbage bags full.

Is it a commentary on society today that children own enough things that you can fill three garbage bags full of stuff and they'll never miss it? Or is it a commentary on the state of my parenting that I overcompensate by filling their little souls with cheap plastic crap from Target instead of love?

Don't answer that.

Now, the thing is, I took some 'before' pictures to show you the great change, but they were SO BAD that I am unable to post them. Pride will not allow me to let you in on the sorry state of those spaces before I got my hands on them. So without further adieu, and for your viewing pleasure, I give you the 'afters':




Here's hoping they stay looking like this for, I don't know, at least an hour or two.

Now excuse me, I've got to run to Target and buy some more of my children's love cheap plastic crap.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Why we still like each other after almost 15 years

As I've mentioned countless times before, the Husband travels for work.

All. the. time.

People are constantly asking me how I do it. There are times when I ask myself the very same thing. It is not an easy task. Today I thought it would be fun to share my secrets and tell you exactly how I survive.

Because some days? It really is just about surviving. Like when you are talking on the phone at the end of a long day where you were puked on, peed on, changed enough diapers to make a landfill, endured the same episode of Barney 17 times, and felt that your life was the equivalent of a non-negotiable hostage situation.

The slight depression you feel on those days can go from bad to worse when you listen as he describes the five-star restaurant he ate at, and the plush accommodations he gets all to himself; all the while, the little people in your home are pummeling you with soggy cheerios for having the audacity to talk on the phone for five whole seconds.

It would be easy to hate him for it.

But because I know he's sparing me the details of his heated, intense meetings with clients, nights spent re-working financial models of young associates who have no clue what they're doing, and the 14-hour days in hospitals, meeting with boards, I don't hate him for it.

I love him even more.

But I have figured out some things through the years that have helped me cope with this lifestyle that we've chosen. I've come up with a series of rules for you to live by, if you ever find yourself in my shoes; be it for a day or forever.

1. Self-pride is paramount to your happiness. Just because your man will not see you every day, does not mean you get to wear sweats all around town and not do your hair or make-up. My hard and fast rule is that I always shower, get ready, and wear actual clothes, even if no one sees me. It makes me feel pretty and gives me a sense of self-worth, which in turn, makes me a nicer mom.

2. Fiercely guard your family time. Our weekends are absolutely sacred to us. We do not schedule play dates or friend time when Dad is home. The kids have missed him all week, and he is ready to play with them on the weekends. He is not one of those guys that needs a few hours by himself to unwind. He wants us, and we are good and ready for him.

We may not have quantity, but we do have quality when it comes to his time.

3. Learn to be an independent do-it-yourselfer. I have taught myself many things over the years about home repair, yard maintenance, and car upkeep. I don't leave those unpleasant jobs for him to do on the weekends, if possible. When I only get to see him two days a week, why would I want to have him sitting at Jiffy Lube with the car half the day? I take care of anything I can, or hire someone to do it for me.

4. Let the little things go. Yes, it annoys me when he slings his pants over the side of a chair instead of hanging them up. But do I really want to spend precious time yelling at him for it? Or, for that matter, would I be receptive to any criticism from him in regards to my own faults and failings?

Not bloody likely, I can promise you that.

So leave him alone. Ignore the small stuff. Be glad he works so hard for your family and make him feel appreciated. You will be surprised at the appreciation and love that flows your way from him, too.

5. Take care of your man -ahem- and his physical needs. This is very, very important to the health and happiness of everyone. (Because my brothers and various male relatives read this, I'll just leave it at that.)

6. Take time for yourself. I am a firm believer in the six o'clock bedtime, and religiously stick to it.

That's right, my friends, I said six o'clock.

My kids have always been early risers, and would wake up at the crack of dawn no matter what time they went to sleep. So, I figured, why not put them to sleep earlier, ensuring they get a good amount of rest? It worked, and they would crash every night at about six, leaving me a few hours to unwind and detox. Even though they are old enough now that they don't fall asleep right at six, I still put them in their rooms at that time.

I know what you're thinking. And I don't care if you judge me.

It has been our routine for years, and they know they are to play quietly in their rooms, read books, or build legos until lights-out at 7:30. It's a little down time for them, and helps me not do a lot of the yelling.

Nobody likes the yelling.

I find myself wholly unable to parent much past six, and definitely take advantage of the 'me' time to recharge.

7. And last, but not least, have realistic expectations. Plan on doing the carpool, the baseball pick-up, the ballet run yourself, and figure out how to make things work on your own. Nothing starts the agitation in a marriage like the expectation that he'll be home in time for dinner. Because when he's not? You're mad as hell and spitting nails by the time he does stroll in. But if you just plan on him not being there, go about your routine, when he happens to sneak away early, you are pleasantly surprised.

So, interpeeps, what are your tricks to surviving a traveling spouse? Anything I'm missing here?

Discuss.

Rules to live by: Pinewood derby version

As the mother of two sons and sister to four brothers, I have had to endure the pleasure of participating in countless Pinewood Derby races thus far in my relatively young life.

(Yet another thing I am really hoping guarantees my admittance through those blasted pearly gates. I definitely need all the help I can get.)

I have learned quite a lot in observing these races, and I thought I'd impart some of my wisdom for you here, hoping to help any first-time derby moms about to embark on this most memorable of adventures.


Rule one: You must start nagging your husband about building the car at least two months in advance. Husbands really like that. Better yet, recruit your cub scout for the job. Nothing lights a fire under a man like his child asking every three minutes, "Can we build it yet? Can we build it yet?" It will still not be started until the Saturday before the race, but can you imagine what would happen if you didn't nag? The thing might still be sitting in the box come race day.

Rule two: You must be a backseat builder during the actual process. It's a special treat for your husband to have you second-guessing the design, cutting, sanding, and use of tools. Especially when you don't actually know the names of most of the tools. He will look at you periodically with what you can only assume is extreme love, and you will know your work there is done.

Rule three: Before race day, prepare your cub scout for the possibility of losing every single race. Add to this by reminding him how badly the other boys (who are his friends) want to win. That way, if he does happen to win a few races, he's so surprised and thrilled that he will promise to never ask you for anything ever again in his whole life. Video tape this, if possible, and show it to him Christmas morning when he stares at his empty stocking with dismay.


Rule four: When your son's car is going down the track for the first time, pray like you've never prayed before. Pray that he doesn't come in first, and pray that he doesn't come in last. For, if you win first, second, or third place? You get to spend another extra Saturday racing against other boys at the district level. NO ONE wants to do more than one Pinewood Derby race in a year. No one. (Except your son. But we're not counting his vote here)

Rule five: Try not to laugh at your now-too-old-to-compete son when he sits back ever so coolly with his friends and adds commentary on the cars. Remind him that he's only been a man now for about a month.


Rule six: Wake your husband up periodically or take away his Crackberry so he can be sure that he's part of the fun.

Rule seven: Send the little sister of the family off to play with the other little sisters in the nursery. It's really what's best for everyone. Little sisters like to hang upside down on their chair, as they whine and moan, asking every three seconds, "HOW MUCH LONGER?"

Rule eight: Bring enough treats to feed an army for after the race. Cub scouts have stomachs the size of large SUVs and somehow never get full. You can feel good knowing that other people's kids are eating your cookies instead of yourself. Just be sure to police your own children. Otherwise, you have to ride home with them all hopped up on brownies and sugar cookies. That's never a pleasant ride.

Rule nine: Congratulate your son on his good sportsmanship, be secretly thankful he didn't win, and pat your husband on the back for a job well done.

Rule ten: Celebrate that you now have 364 days before you have to do this all over again.

Where's the superhero fashion police when we need them?

Has it really been a week since I've posted?

Gasp.

Last week, I felt absolutely bombarded from all directions. I had school events, baseball, cub scouts, tae kwan do, ballet, book club, doctor's appointments, carpools, grocery shopping, errands, and much, much more.

All on a week that I was forbidden from eating any dessert.

It's no wonder something had to give, right? That something, unfortunately, was this little blog. I didn't get to read your blogs and I definitely was not writing here.

My apologies to the one person who actually reads this drivel every day. (Hi, Oma!)

But I feel a little more on my feet this week, somehow dropped a few pounds (thanks to the self-imposed Lent), and am feeling ready to conquer life once again.

But before I fill you in on the fantabulous events of our ever-exciting lives, I must leave you with a little something special that makes me fall over with fits of giggles every time I see it.

But first, please go back and take a look at this.

Well, it has recently made a comeback into our lives, and I must say, the growth Spiderman has occurred since May of 2008 is remarkable, as evidenced by the disturbingly tight extra form-fitting spidey suit.

Spidey was unable to button the suit in the back this year. I am thinking that is a good indication that it is BEYOND fit to wear.

Spidey would tell you differently.


In fact, if I were to allow it, this suit would be seen by grocery store clerks and the good people of Missouri everywhere.

Lucky for all of them, I do not allow it.

Because what you cannot see in these pictures is the suit from the back. And on the back? There is definitely a lot of crack going on. And crack is always going to be VERY BAD in a Spidey suit.

It's true what they say: Crack is whack.

Spidey is matched only in fierceness by Super Girl and her scary jack-o-lantern teeth.



These are two tough peeps that should never be crossed.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

So stay tuned for the exciting events of our weekend, tales from the Pinewood Derby, and maybe (if you're lucky) a recipe to fatten you all up.

Because I really haven't done that in a while and I'd say it's definitely time.

Wishing desperately for a slice of King Cake right about now

On Sunday, we were making our usual pilgrimage to church when the kids noticed signs at several churches along the way announcing various Ash Wednesday services and activities.

Being naturally curious, they wanted to know exactly what it was, what it entailed, and why we didn't do it.

Having had some good Catholic friends through the years, I felt well-schooled in the ways of Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Lent, and the like. [Wisely, I left out the whole Mardis Gras/beads/flashing of boobs component. I figure MTV will take care of that job for me in a few years.]

Fascinated with the concept of giving something up for Lent, my three began begging to have a family lent of our own.

McKay offered cheerfully to give up homework.

Chase chimed in and offered to give up yogurt (something he absolutely despises).

Not exactly how it's supposed to work, is it?

So, with the help of the Husband, we steered ourselves toward the abandonment of something much more painful: Dessert. As a family, we are giving up dessert. For lent. A holiday our own religion doesn't even participate in.

Insane, right?

Realistic, and wholly unable to go 40 days, we opted for a week.

And let me tell you, this has been the longest week of my life.

I am on DAY THREE and I feel like I am starving. Not that I would have eaten much dessert over the last three days anyway, but the fact that I can't -- fills me with longing for it. I find myself craving donuts, brownies, ice cream, and pie. Things I don't even really eat anyway (my drug of choice will always be cookie dough, I'm afraid). I'm crabby. I'm irritable. I've got a pretend dieting headache. And the worst part is that I know it's truly all in my head.

Here's hoping we survive the next four days.

Maybe we should have just given up homework.