Scenes From a Happy Marriage

Setting: master bath on a cold, snowy, winter Saturday morn

Hubby (from shower, holding shower drain filled with long, luxurious brown[ish] hair and soap scum residue):
     Yech!  Do you ever clean this out?

Me (standing in front of mirror, brushing my long, luxurious, brown[ish] hair)
     Ew. No. That's gross.

Hubby (incredulously)
     But it's YOURS!

Me
    That's man's work.

Hubby
     Why do I have to do it?

Me
      Um, because it's disgusting. 

And ..... scene. 

Our Nightly Ritual: The Fight

I keep watching Downton Abbey and thinking how nice it must be to sit in a window and read a book, or take a leisurely walk out in the field, or make time for tea with my family every day.  But that’s not the world we live in. 

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt like I didn’t stop moving all day.  After I got all three kids out the door - which includes a bus pick-up, a middle school drop off, and a preschool drop off - I came home and had a couple hours to myself . . . during which I put laundry away, picked up the bedrooms, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, folded even more laundry, and ran a forgotten lunch box up to school.

I got a text from hubby mid-morning that said his meeting was pushed later in the day, so he wouldn’t be home until late. 

This text was meant to convey the following:  Babe, I’m sorry I can’t be home to help with homework/dinner/practice because I have an unexpected schedule change, but rest assured that I really want to be home with you helping to parent our children.  You're doing a great job.  I adore you.  

What I internalized was:  blah, blah, blah, you’re on your own again tonight.  Sorry.

What I responded was:  I just took a urine sample from the dog.  You suck.

After picking up Small at preschool and dropping off said urine sample at the Vet, we came home for a healthy snack (pop tarts) until it was time to pick up Large at school for a doctor’s appointment.  We were at the doctor’s office for an hour while Medium got off the bus and came home to an empty house for the first time.  For the duration of that hour, half my mind was listening to the doctor, half of it was keeping Small off the dirty floor, half of it was helping Large with his math homework (hehehe . . . see what I did there with the all the halves?) and half of it was envisioning all the things that could be going wrong at home . . . fire, noise violations, raucous partying, floods of biblical proportion, etc. 

Once we got home it was time for the daily Fight.  The Fight proceeds as follows: I tell the boys in my sweet mommy voice that it is time to start homework.  (Surprisingly enough, even though I left Medium a note with specific directions regarding how he should be spending his quiet hour alone, he did not begin his homework.)  The boys chase each other around the kitchen table.  I use my firm voice to tell them to quit horsing around and get going on the homework.  They head for the pantry.  They sit at the table and touch each other non-stop.  I separate them into two rooms so that they can each “focus.”  Focus is a buzzword during The Fight.  Large asks me for help with math homework from Room A while Medium asks for my spelling advice from Room B.  Small whines that I told him I would build a track for his cars from Room C.  I help Large in Room A, Medium starts “Mom!Mommy!Mom!Mooooom!CanYouHelpMe?Moooom!” from Room B, and Small tugs on my shirt hem.  I go into Room B to help Medium with spelling, and he asks me how many times the Braves have won the World Series or something equally as irrelevant. 

I roll my eyes and begin preparing dinner, which tonight consists of jarred spaghetti sauce over some frozen meatballs and macaroni noodles because we need to be out of the house by 5:45 for basketball practice.  And remember, we’re ALL going to practice because Daddy is stuck at the office.  We continue The Fight, except now my sweet, rational Mommy voice has been replaced by something that sounds a lot more stabby. 

We convene at one table for our “meal,” but the boys continue with the constant touching.  Medium doesn’t eat at all because he can’t focus on his meal long enough to take a bite, and Large ignores the no-electronics-at-the-table rule, but I don’t notice because I’m trying to wrestle a stray meatball from the dog while scrubbing sauce out of the carpet in the dining room because Small chose to eat alone in there. 

I guess we’re not having dinner. 

Clearly the power has shifted.  I beg them to PLEASE get shoes and socks on so we can be on time to practice, for once.  Small runs to gather cars to bring with him while Medium saunters upstairs to find a particular jersey to wear even though there’s no chance in hell he’s gonna find it, and Large launches into a debate reminiscent of Nixon and Kennedy, detailing why he should be allowed to bring his phone everywhere, all the time.

I threaten to pull them out of all extra-curricular activities since no one else seems to care.  (Cue baby violins.)  I bust my ass every night of the week trying to get homework done, children fed and dressed appropriately for whichever activity they may be partaking of, and showered and in bed at a reasonable time.  I’d much rather sit on my couch and watch crappy television than sit on an elementary school cafeteria floor while an underpaid staff person tells my kids not to run in the hallway. 

I must have this mug...

When I was young, I was a girl scout and I participated in one other activity at a time.  It is plausible that it only took one season for my mother to realize I was not meant to be a ballet dancer (because I was too clumsy,) a gymnast (because I can’t even walk in a straight line so how am I gonna balance on stuff,) or a soccer player (because I was easily distracted by pretty flowers and bumble bees.)  OR it could be that she had the common sense not to over-schedule her children and then get mad when they couldn't manage their time.  Either way, I’m doing something wrong because I’m way more wide-eyed and screechy than my mom ever was.  My goal for 2015 is to live simply; I’ve got about 11 more months to figure it out.

My 21st Birthday vs. my 41st Birthday: a Detailed Analysis. With Photos

So yesterday was my birthday.  I’m 41-derful.  Kind of a letdown after all the festivities of my 40^th birthday. 

For instance, I have 527 “friends” on Facebook, and yet I received ONLY 113 birthday wishes yesterday.  The other 414 of you are dead to me.  

I’ve always loved my birthday, as anyone who knows me will attest.  I do my friends the courtesy of reminding them how many shopping days are left so that they can have the joy of watching me open a plethora of gifts celebrating the anniversary of the date of my birth.  What’s not to love about THAT?  I don’t get people who don’t love their birthdays – it’s an entire day that is devoted to the celebration of YOU.  If you don’t want to celebrate your birthday, can I have it?

I must admit, however, that celebrating at 41 is a little more, um, reserved than celebrating the milestone of turning 21. 

                                                      My thought process at 21:

Better get up early . . . like 11 . . . to make sure I can help pick up the keg at the Kroger.  I can do that now.  Get a keg full of Milwaukee’s Best.  Because I am 21.  I know that real grown-ups get kegs all the time because they're so much more practical than buying bottles or cans.  We are having a party at the apartment I share with 3 other girls, even though our fridge is stocked only with condiments and a tub of yogurt, and we’ve decorated with $5 unframed posters we bought at the campus bookstore.  

I’m so stoked because my brothers are coming!  I am THE coolest big sister ever.  I am going to take a photo of myself and my brother standing next to a keg of beer.  But make sure Mom doesn’t see it!  I don't want to get in trouble.

This is what telephones used to look like, kids!  I have no idea who I’m talking to, because I’m pretty sure everyone I knew was in the same room with me.  In fact, I can't even be 100% sure there was anyone else on the other end.  [I'm a few drinks in at this point, to state the obvious.]  I’m so glad I don’t have to get up for class tomorrow, but even so, I bet my hangover will be gone by around noon. 

I'm not athletic, but I bet if the Olympics had a beer pong team, I could totally be on it.  Plus I have a good teammate.  I'm gonna marry him in a few years.  

                                          My thought process at 41:

Gotta make sure I’m back from dropping the boys off at the bus stop in time to meet the Glass guy who is going to repair our window to the tune of $400.  After 3 loads of laundry, a storybook about farm animals, and an “educational” children’s television program starring weird little talking mermaid gubbie thingies, I need to remind Small that we don’t “hulk smash” things that don’t belong to us.  

Kick myself at 3:00 when I’m sitting at the bus stop waiting for Medium so we can go get his allergy shots, because, while I would have had plenty of time to make it to the doctor’s office on time if our appointment were at 3:30, I just now realize our appointment was at 3.  Oops.  Leave the doctor’s office and come home to help Large with his homework and order a nutritious pizza for their dinner.  

Spend a total of 10 minutes celebrating with my family, which includes a tiny ice cream cake that is still in the freezer next to the frozen waffles, the chicken tenders, and the Jimmie Dean sausage biscuits, a funny card from Hubby, and 3 oh-yeah-I-forgot-it’s-mom’s-birthdays from the boys.  Listen to a painful rendition of the Happy Birthday song complete with baritone accompaniment, which Large does NOT know how to play because he just brought it home today.  Wait for Hubby to return from picking up babysitter so that I can leave for preschool orientation.  

Have lovely cheesy & carbalicious mexican dinner, complete with what I hope was NOT a lice-infested sombrero and one (large) margarita.   Don't have second margartia because a) I have to drive home and b) liquor sometimes causes me to be drunk and/or to lose the contents of my stomach.  I paid good money for that mexican dinner.  Don't wanna waste it.  Hang with preschool moms as we converse about the origins of baby names and the appropriate age to start the kids in team sports.  Stop by bank so I can pay sitter.  Home by 9:15, because, well, it’s a school night.  Take 3 ibuprofin to ward off a morning headache and mentally begin preparing my to-do list for tomorrow. 

I promise I'll do a better job next year of reminding my friends how many shopping days are left, but perhaps you should just enter it in your calendar now.

Our Romantic Getaway! (During a Hurricane.)

A few weeks ago, Hubby and I had escaped for a few days by ourselves to celebrate our 15^th wedding anniversary.  We know plenty of people who are able to “sneak away” every now and then in order to recharge their marriages, and even some who are able to have regular date nights.  We do not have that luxury, however, so planning a getaway in which we would leave our children for a few nights with their grandparents was a big deal.  We haven’t been away together since 2008, if you don’t include the one raucous night we went to an out-of-town wedding so I could be the super-fun pregnant bridesmaid.

The BEFORE pic, when we were still dry
and didn't feel like vomiting yet.

We have been planning this trip for some time, as making arrangements for the three boys requires a lot of logistical maneuvering.  Add to this the fact that everything we do seems so complicated – many times we’re just too exhausted from the planning to actually put anything into action.  We booked flights and hotels and we were all set to have our romantic vacation from July 3-7. 

You know where this is going, right?

We used frequent flyer miles to book our flights from Richmond, Virginia to Boston, Massachusetts.  Via Newark, New Jersey.  I’m sure Newark is a lovely town once you get to know it, but everything I’ve ever seen/read/heard about Newark leads me to have a preconceived notion that it is the smelly armpit of the Northeast.  Unfortunately, the weekend we were traveling was the same weekend that Hurricane Arthur was wreaking havoc, so we were trying to beat the bad weather up the east coast.  No luck.  Our flight from Richmond to Newark was delayed, and before we even stepped foot on a plane our flight from Newark to Boston was cancelled.  Hubby stood in line for 2 hours and 45 minutes to try to figure out how we were gonna get this party started. 

Any of you who follow my blog regularly already know that Hubby, bless his heart, does not handle travel hiccups well.  See this or this.  He held it together, though, even though the airport restaurants and bars close at 8 which meant there was not a nerve-calming beer to be found anywhere.  We finally boarded a flight from Richmond to Newark and realized we would have to spend the night at one of those shady hotels near the airport.  In Newark.  The airline graciously gave us a discount coupon freebie! number to call to make our own reservations at the airport hotel.  In Newark.  Finally something went right . . . Hubby logged on to the hotel booking website and found us a room.

Surprise!  When we got the hotel, in Newark, they had no record of our confirmation, and since everyone else whose flight was delayed or cancelled was in the same predicament, there were no rooms left.  Hubby started to lose it a little here and after a few tense moments, the desk clerk found a room for us.  It was “Lou’s” room, but we could use it.  Um, not sure who Lou is, but our choice was between Lou’s room and another room, in which an employee’s girlfriend had just showered so it needed to be cleaned first.  Lou’s room it is.  Once we got to Lou’s our room, we discovered that Lou is either in a wheelchair or he is a midget/little person.  Hubby was very confused by the door peep hole that was only 3 feet off the ground but found it comforting that he had a handle to hold onto in the shower AND an emergency phone next to the toilet.  I double-bolted the door just in case Lou didn’t receive the memo that his room was occupied for the evening. 

We caught the first flight out to Boston the next morning, but we missed the 8am ferry we were supposed to catch to Cape Cod.  We arrived in Boston, got settled and refreshed, and figured taking a later ferry wasn’t a bad idea after all.  The original plan had been to spend most of the day basking in the sun on the beach in Provincetown and then hit some of the cute little shops and bars before catching the ferry back to Boston around 7pm.  The ferry trip was 90 minutes long, and since it was Independence Day, we thought we might be lucky enough to see some 4^th of July fireworks as we pulled into the Boston Harbor.

Yep.  That would have been nice.  

Bad hair/bear day.

Again, Hurricane Arthur screwed with our plans.  The ride over from Boston to Provincetown was cloudy and gray, but we were still excited to get to the Cape.  Once we arrived, however, the rain started in full force.  The first thing we did when we got off the boat was buy a raincoat for me.  We tried to maintain a positive attitude, visiting quaint little boutiques and fun bars.  I started to get really cranky when my feet started sloshing in my shoes and my underwear got wet through three layers of clothing.  By the time the rain started coming sideways and in sheets, we attempted to find an earlier ferry back to Boston.  No luck.

When we finally boarded the ferry at 7pm (with about 20 other suckers, total, who hadn’t been able to score an earlier ferry,) the wind, rain, and lightening were so bad, we each popped a Dramamine and tried not to think about the choppy waves.  I laid my head down on the sterilized and probably not encrusted in dried ketchup and coffee rings table with my palms down in order to steady myself because it was the only item I could find that seemed to be staying still.  I felt like I was on the Edmund Fitzgerald.  Hubby and I have been together for 20 years, and I know from experience that an evening that ends in vomit just isn’t as fun when you’re 40 as it is when you’re 20. 

Luckily, the rest of our vacation was lovely, but it was a long time comin’.   We’ll be ready to take a romantic vacation together again in approximately fifteen years.

"Vacation." The Quotation Marks Indicate Sarcasm.

 

The summer months will soon be upon us, (if Mother Nature ever decides to make up her friggin' mind) and that means the kids will be home for summer “vacation.”  I use the term “vacation” lightly, because, as most parents know, a vacation for the kids does NOT constitute a vacation for the grown-ups. In fact, I think the last time I had a true vacation was on our honeymoon in 1999.  Hubby and I had been together so long by the time we actually got married, our honeymoon was essentially a vacation from each other as well.  Other couples were makin’ out in the hot tub.  Hubby entered the volleyball tournament at the resort while I read my novel, enjoyed a frosty beverage (or 5), and lounged under a beach umbrella.  We’d check in with each other after a few hours, because, you know . . .  romance and all. 

Most vacations I’ve taken since then have included none of the aforementioned accoutrements.  I cannot read a novel on the beach for fear of my children drowning, being trapped in a sand hole, or losing an appendage to shark attack.  I can’t enjoy a frosty beverage because by the time I actually get to sit down and enjoy it it’s either filled with wayward sand or it is melted to syrupy sludge.  And last time we were at the beach the umbrella broke because American beaches are windy.  So I spend most of my beach time applying SPF 50 sunscreen, or as I like to call it – a cardigan in a can, and trying to keep my hair out of my mouth.

(travel.kingsgo.com)
Our vacations are JUST like this!!!

 Sigh.

Our family vacations never quite live up to the standard set by Disney channel commercials.  Our children do not sit in the back seat, quietly coloring or making hand waves on the wind outside the window.  They argue about whose turn it is to choose the dvd, complain about their excessive hunger, and then announce that they have to use the potty approximately every 30 miles.  What did we ever do before the invention of the Swagger Wagon dvd player? 

When I was little, we used to drive eight hours from Virginia to upstate New York.  My mom was equipped with a bag of sour balls and a hand-held tape recorder, on which we would listen to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” for mile after mile.  She would get annoyed because I never understood how Lucille (of you-picked-a-fine-time-to-leave-me-Lucille fame) could have 400 children.  “It’s Four.  Hungry.  Children!  For the last time!”  Testy, that one.  Perhaps it was the un-air-conditioned atmosphere of the Chevy Nova that contributed to my mother’s discomfort.  Certainly it wasn’t the endless loop of Kenny Rogers tunes on the cassette tape; that man is a musical genius.

            Car trips are going to be the death of me, and it’s not the kids.  It’s the spouse.  Every time we stop for gas he buys snacks for the boys.  Never mind that I’ve packed healthy snacks for the trip.  Apparently they need king-size chocolate bars and 24-ounce Gatorades, and then Hubby gets annoyed that they have to pee.  This is why I totally endorse dehydrating my children on long car trips.  Also, I am from the school of thought that believes it necessary to travel from Virginia to Florida in TWO days.  Not one.

            I am a planner.  I am a woman who keeps 3 running calendars – one for the kitchen whiteboard, one on my phone, and a day runner.   It should come as no surprise that I think we should plan ahead and make hotel reservations.  On our most recent trip to Florida, on which The Plan was to wing it and just stop when we got tired, we found ourselves on a stretch of Interstate 95 in South Carolina in a heavy rainstorm, trying to get a hotel room at the same time as every other weary traveler.  When I got to the lobby to register, there were 12 other guests in front of me.  We finally got to our room and played a quick game of Identify That Smell.  

Um, I’m gonna go with cat urine for the Win.  

The boys were bouncing on one of the two double beds on which our family of five would be sleeping, trying to release 12 hours’ worth of pent-up energy, while I yelled at them to NOT touch the bedspread because I was having flashbacks of a Dateline NBC investigative report involving black lights.  I slept in my clothes, and I dared not open the mini-fridge, lest I find something that the previous tenant left behind.  Like a human head or something. 

I am grateful for the change of scenery and the opportunity to travel with my family, but there’s something to be said for clean sheets, a “headless” refrigerator, and having a plan.