A good man

I married a good man.

A man who takes the trash out without being told. A man who plays games with our kids and sometimes lets them win. A man who can't wait to get home at the end of the day, just so he can be with us.

A man who builds me up when I am doubting myself. (which, let's be honest here, is a lot)

A man who laughs at my "chair closet" when I get lazy and don't want to hang things up. (And also a man who doesn't take that time to remind me how often I nag him about hanging his own things up.)

[Note to self: No more nagging about the clothes]

A man who loves freckles and dimpled thighs. (or at least pretends to anyway)

A practical man who approaches life with logic and intelligence.

A man who sees me at the end of my rope, and always ties a big knot for me to hold onto.

Yes, I married a good man.

And today I thought I should tell him that.

How to tempt the universe: Step-by-step instructions

Step one: Read this blog post and immediately pop over to Amazon to order this book. Wait a week for your book to arrive and find you have no time to actually sit down and read it.

Step two: Make the time to read it about a week or so later, and begin eagerly one evening before bed. Find yourself laughing, crying, and repeatedly waking the Husband up to read him passages from the book.

Step three: Pause, look around at your life and think these famous last words, "Man, I am so blessed. I have it so good." Put the book on your nightstand with a smile and fall blissfully asleep.

Step four: LITERALLY EIGHT MINUTES LATER, be awoken by the blood-chilling sound dreaded by mothers everywhere: Your girl child puking and coughing all over her bed.

Step five: Jump out of bed, and help her get into the tub. Throw sheets and blankets into the washing machine, and begin the laboriously painful process of scrubbing the carpet.

Step six: Hear commotion coming from the bathroom, and go in to find that your oldest boy child has stumbled into the bathroom and - ONE FOOT FROM THE TOILET, MIND YOU - stood there and puked all over the bathroom floor, whilst his sister sits shrieking in the bathtub.

Step seven: Take three seconds and try to keep your head intact on your shoulders. Curse silently under your breath. Fume madly. Step into action. Remove girl child from tub, insert oldest boy child. Create makeshift bed for girl child out of blankets on the floor. Continue scrubbing carpet, break your fingernail so far down that it bleeds, and consider updating your resume to read, "Can simultaneously remove puke and blood from carpeting." Decide you really don't want that job and mentally crumble up your resume and throw it in the trash.

Step eight: Get oldest boy settled in bed with strict admonition to MAKE IT TO THE TOILET NEXT TIME. Return to finish cleaning puke off every surface in the bathroom.

Step nine: Two hours later, crawl exhausted back into bed. Have the Husband roll over in a fake-sleepy voice and say, "Hey, what's going on?" Consider choking the Husband. Decide against it as you'd probably have to clean the toilets in jail, too. Roll over and attempt to fall asleep.

Step ten: Curse the universe. Vow to never tempt that cruel, cruel mistress again.

Any questions?

"What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself." Abraham Lincoln

Recently, I was contacted by a company who wanted to know if they could sponsor this website.

It is not the first time I have been offered cash for my soul.

Ouch. I know.

And it will not be the last time that I decline it.

When I first started blogging three and a half years ago, I did it for me. I saw it as a fun outlet for writing. It became a way to keep in touch with long distance friends and family. It is, at times, my own personal soapbox, a place to laugh at myself, cry with myself, showcase my family, and keep a record of the everyday stuff that I'm afraid I'll forget. I had no idea there existed perfect strangers in the world willing to read what I write here.

And it is not now, nor will it ever be, for sale.

Cluttering up these pretty pages with ads for diapers, jewelry, tampons, and books seems a bit like selling out to me. I wouldn't send my kids off to school with bumper stickers on their cheeks or backpacks, so why do it here? Isn't there enough branding and consumerism in the world without me contributing to it?

I am left now to wonder about those of you who do choose to accept advertising dollars for space on your websites and blogs.

Specifically, I am wondering this:

1. How much do you make?
2. Do you feel it leaves your site cluttered and busy?
3. Does it make you obsess more over your stats, knowing that revenue is dependent on that?
4. Do you think less of those like me who opt out?

I cast no judgmental rocks from my glass house, but I am curious. I mean, if some of you tell me you are getting a couple thousand a month, I might jump on that train so fast that there'll be no time to stop and get my luggage.

But I can't imagine they pay well enough to support the lifestyle I would like to become accustomed to.

Am I wrong?

Discuss.

Eight

Dear Hannah,

Yesterday, my sweet baby girl, you turned eight.

It's a strange thing to have your youngest hit such a milestone age. With the older kids, you expect (and almost cheer with glee) the passing of ages because it means they are maturing and growing out of difficult phases. Those phases are probably only hard because of the phases that the younger kids are in. Phases that seem loud, incessant, and (at times) life-sucking.

But with the youngest, it's bittersweet because it means that it's the last time you get to experience something, good or bad.

The last kid to learn to ride a bike. The last kid to start school. The last kid to be baptized. The last kid to get a driver's license. The the last kid to go to college. The last kid to get married, have children, and grow old.

Then I die. The end.

Well, not really. But it sure feels like it some days.

Right now, you seem to be testing our boundaries. You have discovered your keen ability to carry on an argument and (JUST LIKE YOUR STUBBORN FATHER. HMMM. WONDER WHERE YOU GET IT FROM?) hate to ever find yourself on the losing end of things. Your intelligence and logic astound me at times, and I shake my head and imagine what courtroom you'll someday unleash your fury on, and for what long shot cause.

Heaven help the world that stands in your way, is all I've got to say.

But deep at your core, you are still the sweetest little pea that ever was born. You have a heart that is always open to those around you. You are so tender. More often than not, I glance your way during a movie and see quiet tears spilling over your rosy cheeks. Whether it's poor Wilbur the Pig or the broken heart of the Phantom of the Opera - you are rooting for the underdog every time. You need them to win and come out okay. Your world makes no sense when people exist in it with sorrow.

I love that about you.

And I thank the good Lord for sending you to me that way.

Hannah, your smile lights up my world. Your laughter fills my soul. You are my angel, my ally, and my bright spot of pink in this life full of gym socks and baseball caps. You make me get up and dance when I'd rather watch. And you help me see that life was meant to be laughed at in all its ironic, beautiful, tragic glory.

I love you, cheeky.

Love, Mama

The essence of me

I am a girl who always loses it the week before a haircut and trims her own bangs. I hate that about myself.

I am afraid of dying and, as a result, plan my own funeral about nineteen times per month.

I am a really, really good baker.

I don't like to fail and worry constantly that I will.

I do not believe in doing my own nails and indulge myself in that every other week.

My biggest fear is public humiliation. Which is really ironic considering how frequent I have actually been humiliated in public.

I love my babies with the fiercest intensity my soul has ever known.

I am a cleaner, but loathe cleaning the bathroom. Of everything in my life, it gets cleaned the least.

My favorite thing is to curl up in the warm sunshine with a good book and a cookie.

I am harder on me than anybody else.

There was a piece of me missing until I met the Husband. He is truly my best friend and I don't know what I'd do without him.

I love music and singing so much it hurts, but can't read or sing a note to save my life. I dream of standing on a stage and belting out Broadway in my next life. I think it's one thing I got gypped on, and I plan to ask god about that when I see him next.

My friends are more important to me than I let on. Spending time with them refills my soul.

I don't like to exercise. But I also like to exercise.

I am completely, irrevocably, undeniably insecure.

I am a religious person, but I would not consider myself to be very spiritual.

I love the top half of my body, but loathe and despise the bottom half.

Looking through a camera lens at others has taught me a lot about myself.

I am always hydrated. Getting my water in is the one thing I am perfect at every single day.

I have a shoe problem. There is not room enough in my closet for all the shoes I have, but they're the one thing I am incapable of throwing away.

I really like to sleep and am quite good at it, too.

I am kind, freckled, hopeful, smiling, tall, and happy.

I am me.

And today I decided that is a pretty good thing to be.

Channeling my inner Elaine

Remember that old Seinfeld episode when Elaine has the arduous task of finding the perfect pair of socks for Mr. Pitt?

And how she gets him tight ones, loose ones, skinny ones, fat ones - and none of them are quite right? And in a fit of rage, he throws a torrent of socks around the room while Elaine covers her head in the fetal position?

Well, let's just say that in my life I am Elaine, and the Husband is Mr. Pitt.

Now Lord knows I love me the Husband. Love him more n' my luggage. He completes me, and all those other trite movie cliches, if you know what I mean.

But, man, the guy has got some serious sock issues.

For Easter, I got him some very nice, soft, not-too-tight (or so I thought) Ralph Lauren socks to wear with his suits. Hunted at several stores, and fondled dozens of socks in my quest. I happily found the perfect socks and spent a pretty penny to get them. And the Husband liked them, he really did. Except for the tiny, microscopic part at the top is just a wee bit too tight. The rest of the sock fits like a dream. But he rejects them due to a quarter-inch bit at the top.

Mind you, these socks leave no marks on his calves. No sock tattoo remains after he takes them off at the end of the day. But still, he cannot be comfortable.

And goodness knows, we want the man to be comfortable.

[What with him spending all day earning the money and such for me to spend on my frivolous, bad self.]

This is not the first time my sock hunting skills have failed me. I've tried getting him looser socks, and he hates those because they just fall down. I've tried tighter socks, and he hates those because they're too constricting. He hates them for being too scratchy. Or too silky. Too thin. Too fat. Too long. Too short.

[INSERT EXPLETIVE OF YOUR CHOICE HERE]

So he's resorted to wearing his old ones, with holes in the toes, and he laughs while telling me that the airport security people ALWAYS comment on his poor holey socks.

Not knowing, of course, that he's got about 19 pairs without holes sitting rejected in his sock drawer at home.

I guess it means that this Elaine will just have to continue her search for the ever-elusive pair of socks for her picky Mr. Pitt.

It's a good thing that he's so darn lovable. Otherwise, I might have to sock him in the jaw...