Lucky 13 - Our Anniversary

I used to consider myself a hopeless romantic.  I believed in true love, soul mates, everlasting devotion, kissing in the rain . . .  the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap . . . oh, wait.  That was from Bull Durham.  

Moving on . . .  


Now that Hubby and I have been married 13 years, I realize that all those things exist, but not without a lot of effort on the part of Husband and Wife.  (Or Husband and Husband, or Wife and Wife, or wherever your life leads you.)  Hubby and I are not overly demonstrative in our devotion to one another, and my not-so-secret plan to smother him in his sleep when he p*sses me off has been well-documented.  (Mostly this means that I'm going to have to come up with another plan . . . )  My point?  True love is tough to maintain.


The following poem is not gushy, mushy, sappy romantic, but I have always loved it.  Anyone who has read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day knows that this woman knows of what she speaks.  


So on the occasion of our 13th Wedding Anniversary, (which was 2 days ago,) I am dedicating my favorite love poem to the man who calls me 15 times a day to ask me to get his dry cleaning, remind me when the contractor will be arriving, make sure I call the insurance company, ask me to run by the bank, announce that he needs razors, tell me he loves me.






TRUE LOVE
- Judith Viorst


It is true love because
I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day
Even when there's no one here but him,
And because
I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers
Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,
And because
When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
I always hope he's dead.

It's true love because
If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed,
He wouldn't tell me he told me,
And because
He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing,
And because
If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save,
He says he'd save me.

It's true love because
When he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the painters and the exterminator and the baby who was getting the chicken pox,
He understood why I hated him,
And because
When I said that playing the stock market was juvenile and irresponsible and then the stock I wouldn't let him buy went up twenty-six points,
I understood why he hated me,
And because
Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion,
We still feel something
We can call
True love. 

Glitter is Mommy Anthrax II: I Doubt Martha Has These Problems

The thing about Motherhood is that it provides me with a never-ending supply of anecdotes so that you, my readers, can laugh at my pain.  I choose to laugh right along with you because otherwise I would be locked in a rubber room in a stunning ensemble that doesn’t have armholes. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been on Pinterest.  It is such a time suck and I feel inferior to all the other women out there who have the time/creativity/army of employees to sew their own clothing, pack organic lunches, and concoct their own fabric softener.  

(Let’s pause here for a moment, shall we?  WHY would one make one’s own fabric softener, or any household cleaner for that matter, when these items can be easily purchased for minimal money?  That’s the beauty of progress . . . it’s 2012 and we can purchase these products already made!  It’s called Evolution, folks.  Aren’t we just regressing if we eschew progress instead of embracing the industrialization that eventually culminates in a trip to Target?) 

Okay.  Pinterest.

I was perusing the other day and got a bug up my *ss to make a Fourth of July wreath.  I made my necessary purchases last night during a particularly eventful (screeching, lollipop-throwing, "I wan git out") trip to the craft store, and today Medium and I got to work.  He cut out felt stars for me in red, white, and blue, and we decided to add glitter to the edges to make them spaaaakly.  We used a plate to catch wayward glitter and began decorating.  This is not my first time at the rodeo, you see, and I didn't want to make a mess.

In the interest of being frugal and teaching Medium a lesson in resourcefulness, I folded a sheet of paper in half and fashioned a little funnel so that I could pour the excess glitter back into the tube.  Wouldn’t want to waste any perfectly good glitter. 

I was on the last set of stars.  I worked at the counter, and Medium was sitting on the counter with his feet in the sink and playing with the faucet.  Yes, I know he’s 7; he’s easily entertained.  He extended the hose and was checking out the mechanics of the nozzle.  As I tapped the side of the glitter tube to make sure it settled, Medium turned the water on while it was facing me.   

Chaos ensued.

1.  It's a Beer Baby
2.  It's water and glitter, you sickos.
I'm not Monica Lewinsky

I jumped, startled, and glitter flew ev-ery-where.  It was caked onto my arm, but unfortunately I did not get a photo because I was too busy middle-naming him and experimenting with a new octave.

  

Trying to clean up glitter is like trying to get It’s a Small World out of your head.  You can try and try and try to get rid of it, but it’s still gonna be there.  (You’re welcome.)  Once glitter is on your hands, it magically ends up in your hair, in your eyebrows, in your ears . . . in every nook and cranny you have.  Since the glitter landed on the kitchen floor, it ended up on our feet, so we can look forward to soon seeing it in every room of the house.  I’ll consider it free decorating.  Every room can use a little bling.

For months I will be finding glitter in unexpected places.  That's what I get for liking the spaaaklies.

This is what was left AFTER I washed and scrubbed.

Yes.  That's gonna be there forever.

 It bears repeating:  Glitter is Mommy Anthrax.  That's correct . . . this NOT the first time glitter has proven to be my nemesis.  Read about yet another Glitter Fiasco here.  Apparently it's a lesson best learned the hard way.

Father's Day: an Homage to my Hubby

In honor of Father’s Day, (even though, as one of my friends put it, I'M the reason he's a father in the first place,) the top ten reasons I love my Baby Daddy.

Ahem.

1.     Over the past year, he’s only knocked out one of my children’s teeth.  It was an accident, but that doesn’t preclude the fact that Medium lost a tooth.

2.     He doesn’t go to bed angry.  Nope - he doesn’t let marital strife interfere with his sleep.  While I’m tossing and turning and contemplating smothering him with his pillow or preparing his morning coffee with a little arsenic sweetener, he’s snoozing away.

3.     He loves me just the way I am.  A man who would allow THIS to remain on the kitchen counter since last Friday obviously does not care whether or not his bride loses weight.

4.     He believes in me, and he is confident that I can do anything.  Why else would he leave a to-do list that includes going to the bank, dropping off dry-cleaning, delivering a package, and waiting for the HVAC guy, while making sure my kitchen is stocked with milk and bread, and of course, raising our children to be upstanding citizens.

5.     He makes an effort to include me in his hobbies.  Just last week he asked me to meet him at the end-of-the-season baseball party.  I had already decorated 12 baseballs, purchased baseball card packs, packed him a bag of clothes and cleats, filled the cooler, loaded the bag with baseball bats, grabbed the giant bucket of baseballs, and buckled all three of my little All-Stars into the Swagger Wagon ( . . . so thanks for the invite!)  This particular baseball team is not to be confused with the team for which I purchase, set up, and man the concession stand, for which I held an open house thirty-one/scentsy/stella & dot party last fall, and for which I registered and solicited donations for a recent tournament.   That’s a different team.

6.     He is supportive of my writing and he is proud of me.  He gushes away when colleagues or their wives tell him how funny I am or ask him about various situations in which I may have thrown him under the proverbial bus.  He is a willing participant in my storytelling and is always glad to be the *ss in my jokes.  I mean the butt of my jokes. 

7.     He helps with the laundry. . . usually with an audible sigh and a muffled comment about not having any clean underwear or socks.  He simply shrugs off my unwillingness inability to match socks as one of my more endearing quirks.

8.     He cherishes the fact that we are different.  Our strengths lie in different areas, and after the first ten years of our marriage, he finally accepted, graciously, that my lack of cooperation with the checkbook is all part of my charm.  I know this because I said to him, “why can’t you just accept that my lack of cooperation with the checkbook is all part of my charm?” at which point I think he threw his hat on the ground while I looked at him all doe-eyed and smirky.

9.     He appreciates my sense of humor.  When he texts to say he’ll be home by 10 and I text back that I’ll be sure to have my boyfriend out of the house by then, I know he’s laughing.  It’s probably deep down inside, but he’s laughing.

10.  He doesn’t complain that I don’t like to cook.  In fact, he didn’t have any comment at all when I suggested that if Chef Boyardee is not a sufficient dinner then perhaps he should eat his BIG meal at lunch time. 

My Hubby is an excellent daddy.  While this post may be a tad sarcastic, (just like I’m a tad sarcastic,) he loves his boys and I couldn’t ask for much more.    

Embarrassing Myself at the Swimmin' Hole

I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, that I struggle with my weight.  I am a Lifetime Member of Weight Watchers, and I have decided that this means I will spend the duration of my lifetime watching my weight.  Watching it go up, probably.

I also believe I have outlined my feelings about wearing a swimsuit in public.  I despise it, and I happen to live in a neighborhood FULL of Beautiful People.  But my children love the pool and hanging out with their friends, and I don’t want to punish them because of my own insecurities, so I suck it up, suck it in, and head to the pool.  

A few days ago, I took them to the pool for an evening swim, figuring they’d splash around, tire themselves out, come home and get a bath, and go to bed.  It was all part of my master plan to watch Real Housewives of New Jersey in peace after they were asleep and perhaps enjoy a glass or three of wine get them some exercise and help them burn some of their boy energy in a healthy manner.  This is the first summer where I feel like I can sit within the confines of the baby pool and keep an eye on the older two in the big pool without fear of them drowning. . . not so much because of their swimming skills, but because they can reach the bottom of the pool with their feet. 

I took Small over to the baby pool because he exhausts me in the big pool.  He has NO fear of water, which is nice, except when he takes off at a sprint and jumps into the pool 5 feet from where I’m waiting for him with my arms outstretched.  

Upon closing the gate, I noticed my friend M’s Hubby was sitting on the side of the baby pool watching their youngest splash around.  Hmmmm . . . I thought.  I’ll walk gracefully over to M’s Hubby and engage him in polite and sophisticated conversation, perhaps about the upcoming presidential election or Lindsey Lohan’s most recent run-in with The Law. 

  

As I approached the baby pool, I was watching Small, who had jumped in right at the 1 foot mark.  That’s 12 inches, or approximately the size of one step on a stairwell.

Do you know what’s NOT approximately the size of one step on a stairwell?  The 1 foot, 10 inch section of the pool where M’s Hubby was sitting, and where I decided to step into the pool. 

I stepped into the pool as if I were stepping off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote in a Roadrunner clip.  Meep-meep.

I fell in, lost my balance, and landed on my *ss, no doubt making a splash big enough to cause a tsunami at the beach-entry end of the pool.  I imagine babies were flying into their parents’ arms as if they had been catapulted.  M’s Hubby was struck mute with a look of shock/horror and open-mouthed awe at the acrobatics he had just witnessed.

I picked myself up and sat on the edge of the pool next to him, and of course my swimsuit made that uber-flattering slushy-squishy sound as my wet suit met the wet pavement.  Super.

“You know,” I said, “you’d think I’d be embarrassed, but the fact is, this kind of stuff happens to me so often, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and wait for the next time I commit some act of self-humiliation.”

It wasn’t awkward at all . . .

Failure to Adhere to the BoyMommy Flip Flop Policy

As faithful readers of the BoyMommy blog, you are well aware that I have a Strict Flip-Flop Policy.  In summary, if your feet are gnarled, malformed, disfigured, or otherwise unkempt, one should not be wearing flip flops.  Ever. 

I realize feet, in general, are a means to an end and are usually not a person’s best or most attractive feature.  However, I believe it is an individual’s responsibility . . . to the universe . . . to use one’s best judgment when choosing appropriate footwear. 

During my recent trip to Best Buy I noticed a woman who apparently DID NOT GET THE MEMO regarding my Strict Flip Flop Policy, which I feel should, in fact, be made into law.  I’ma gonna write me a letter to Obama and tell him to quit lounging around and fortheloveo’pete DO something about the important, time-sensitive issue of gnarly feet.

This woman was wearing flip flops and clearly should not have been.  Naturally I took a photo of her feet as an example of Failure to Adhere to the BoyMommy Flip Flop Policy.  The problem is, I keep looking at the photo.  It’s like a train-wreck of Kardashian proportions – I can’t look away.  So I’m going to post it here on the World Wide Internets in hopes that releasing the photo into the wild will somehow delete its image from my brain. 

I’m sure this woman is very nice/funny/a good dancer (and all those other things people say about someone who has a noticeable flaw in personality or appearance.)  These traits do not trump nasty-*ss feel, however.

WARNING!!!  It ain’t pretty.

I mean, she went through the effort to paint her toe nails, so she is vain enough to make SOME effort, but there comes a time when you have to accept that no amount of nail polish in the entire world will improve the above image.  

Please, I beg of you. . .  when I get older and/or lose my faculties (whichever comes first) do NOT let me leave the house in open-toed shoes if my feet are nasty.  Send me out into the world with black knee-high socks and Birkenstocks before you make me subject innocent people to HammerToe.

"You'll Shoot Yer Eye Out!"

I’m back, peeps.

Sorry it’s been so long, but the proverbial sh*t has hit the fan. 

First, and the main reason I haven’t written lately, is that our computer broke.  There is about a 2 inch space on the screen that is completely blank, which means to use it you have to minimize your page, move it to the left side of the screen, and squint like hell.  When I took it in to the Apple Store, the guy looked at me with this what-the-h*ll-happened-here look.  "I have three boys," I said as a means of explanation.  Apparently he didn't need me to elaborate beyond that.

$$

Second, our air conditioning unit clogged and we had water damage in our basement.  (This place is a Money Pit, except my husband isn’t nearly as funny as Tom Hanks when it comes to home repair, homeowner’s insurance, and paying contractors.)  The boys were downstairs playing one day, but then came up to tell me the carpet was “squishy.”  That’s never a good sign. 

$$$

And third, Baby Smalls is preparing for eye surgery.  Our health insurance is stellar - our per-person deductible could easily purchase a reliable used car. 

$$$$$$$$$$$$

We first noticed his eyes were wonky when he was about 18-months-old.  I asked Hubby about it, but he convinced me I was seeing things and that Small was just fine.  It got progressively worse, however.  I made an appointment with my eye doctor, but never considered that he wouldn’t be able to take the vision test.  If you don’t know your letters, it really doesn’t matter how big that giant E is on the top of the chart. 

"7!    P!    Bird!"

So I made an appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist, but since she’s a specialist and apparently the shiznit in her field, it took a good 3 months to get in to see her.  I figured he had a lazy eye, we’d patch the other eye in order to strengthen the wonky one, and that would be it.

Turns out it’s a little more serious than that.  My heart about jumped out of my body when she announced that he has “little to no vision” in his right eye. 

Is that why he always turns around in circles like he’s chasing his tail and only makes left turns when he’s on his tricycle? 

Surgery is scheduled for early August, and in the meantime, he’s supposed to be wearing his eye patch over his good eye for as long as he’s awake.  Ever try to get a toddler to do something he doesn’t want to do?  It’s like midget wrestling.  I keep finding eye patches everywhere . . . stuck to the driveway, in the dryer, tucked into his car seat.  He’s stealthy, that one. 

And then there’s the question I get at least once a day:  What happened to his eye?

I could, and often do, give a brief summary of the real reason he’s wearing the patch, OR . . .

1.     Well, you know what they say . . . “it’s all fun and games until  . . . “

2.     We got him a Red Rider BB Gun for Christmas. 

3.     He was looking at porn too long and his eyes got stuck that way.

4.     “He falls down a well, his eyes go cross.  Gets kicked by a mule, they go back to normal.  I don’t know. . . .”

5.     He’s a Cyclops.

I can't help it.  Part of me just wants to see what sort of reaction I'll get if I use one of those excuses.  Stay tuned . . .