“I’m a Thief!”

The cards are stacked against me in a certain irritating fashion.  I cleaned the house up the other day. I got it smelling good, AND I even looked okay.  I had showered, done my hair and my make up… what’s more: dinner was cooking.  I was so excited for my husband to come home and see what was going on!  I was like June Cleaver -a rare occasion that isn’t likely to repeat itself until the planets align!

Minutes before he was “supposed” to get home, I got THE text.  I guess I knew it was coming.  I could sorta feel it in the part of my gut that hangs over my pants, childbearing leftovers.

He would be late.

This time, “late” meant 10 pm.  By then, dinner was cold, my make up had been washed off and -let’s face it -I was asleep.  He had Arby’s for dinner, by the way.

Yesterday, I was crazy enough to spend more than several hours preparing a dish that is now baking in my oven.  A breakfast dish.  It’s special.  Want to know why?  It’s one of those “soak overnight” egg dishes and I’ve been dying to try it for months!  It calls for hearty bread, and I wanted to bake some fresh bread to make it with.  I finally made bread yesterday and as I started piecing the recipe together, I noticed something. I didn’t have enough eggs.  Or milk.  That always happens to me.  I seriously plan my menu two weeks at a time, and I still end up frantically driving to my mother’s house in my apron and stealing her soy sauce.  Or her A-1.  And then, to salve my guilt, I leave a note on a napkin, promising to bring them some of whatever food I’m making.

Yesterday, I couldn’t bear to steal anymore.  Not from my mother.  Not this time.  So when my dear Aunt called, I begged two eggs from her.  Of course she obliged because that’s what aunties do.  She told me she would probably be gone when I came to get them but that I could let myself in.

I did.  And guess what?  Next to her fridge is her stove.  On her stove were some STILL ON THE PAN cookies.  And next to her cookies were

cookie dough.

These cookies, it must be mentioned, are of a special sort.  They are the same recipe that my mother uses.  I’ve had a hankering for those cookies for a week now, but I’ve sworn off buying chocolate chips on account of my bank account and health (in that order).  I tried to put on blinders.

I tried with most all of my might.

Then I took a cookie and a pinch of cookie dough.

Correction: I STOLE a cookie and pinch of cookie dough. And as I bit into them, OH what JOY filled my SOUL!  I took her eggs and her cookie and I went out the door.  As I stepped into the crisp evening air, I was hit with a very vivid memory -one I didn’t even know I had.

I remembered racing out of my mother’s kitchen into the crisp autumn evening air, carrying my flute on my shoulder (compliments of the carrying case dad bought for me which I still have and use and love) and stuffing my face with my mother’s freshly baked cookies.  I was on my way to a home football game.  I got into every single one free -I was with the band.

And just like that, the memory was gone.  But for one split second, I felt the wonderful feeling of what it was like to be 15 and have energy and eat my mother’s cookies to my heart’s content with no consequences to my 28″ waist.  That blasted waist line was beautiful! Even when I fed it snickers and Dr. Pepper for lunch, it was beautiful!  I wish I would have known that then…

Funny what one cookie can do to a girl.

My mother’s effect on me is far-reaching.

Don’t blame yourself, Ma, for my thievin’ ways.  That’s the devil’s doing.

Anyway, I came home and finished putting my breakfast dish together.

Three loaves of freshly baked bread.  Eight eggs (two borrowed).  One pound of bacon, cooked.  One pound of sausage, cooked.  This is no ordinary recipe!  This is a special occasion recipe!  I was thinking of having it for Easter breakfast, but I wanted to try it out first.

My kitchen counter looked a wreck when I had finished preparing the dish, but I knew it would all be worth it in the morning.  The thought of serving it to my husband was making me giddy.  He’s always so good at making all of the appropriate appreciative yummy noises.

Aside from coming home late, he informed me that he had to go in early.  The dish has to cook for nearly 2 hours, and in order for me to get him this (what I’m sure is going to be) delicious breakfast dish, I would have had to get up at 3.

AM.

Little did I know that I would be up at 3 AM anyway cleaning up something rather less-than-wonderful from my son.

It took an hour to clean up, after which hour I was in no mood to cook anything.  Since I had only rested about three hours, I went back to bed.  Two hours later, my phone’s alarm went off.

I tried to dismiss it, only to find that my track ball won’t scroll down.  I’ve tried everything to fix it.  Everything short of taking the bloody thing apart and running it over with my Jeep Grand Cherokee.  The stupid smart phone won’t let me dismiss my alarm.  It’s been going off faithfully every five minutes since 6:30.  I tried rebooting it, but the stupid smart phone REMEMBERS that it needs to keep waking me up!

So I yanked the battery out, and now I’m up, I’m up.

The egg dish is cooking.

My husband is gone.

My smart phone is stupid.

My kitchen is a wreck.Photobucket

And I am a thief.

(Recipe for the brilliant egg dish is coming up just as soon as it pops out of the oven.  May I suggest you BUY hearty bread instead of making it?)

Group Date!

Remember my post from the other night?  Of the kids?  Sleeping?  After the sitter left?

Is my unnerving use of questions marks bothering you yet?

Anyway, we were out on a group date.  We ate pizza and played games.  My dearest and I took the cake for worst at that Nintendo guitar playing game.  Sweet, no?(Thanks to Lisa for the picture.  I stole it without asking.  Sorry to Lisa for stealing without asking.)

And I’ll just say: everyone should know the people I know.  Everyone.

Valentine’s Day

I started out my Valentine’s Day the way I believe everyone ought to start out their Valentine’s Day.

That is to say: I started out Valentine’s Day with my mother’s pancakes, dyed a lovely shade of pink -per tradition.Photobucket

After mom graciously fed us all and handed out Valentine gifts to the grandkiddies, I snatched up my nieces and brought them home with me.  Their mom went in for an ultrasound (it’s a BOY!).  Instead of having preschool class, we had a preschool party.  My one-year old niece is so dang cute that I can’t get enough of her.  Three years ago when Lacy was one and she was dumping everything out of anything, it really chapped my cheeks.  But watching my niece do it was downright adorable.  What changed?  I dunno.  My attitude.  The fact that I had another kid.  The fact that this kid is irresistable and I enjoy watching her dump things.Photobucket
I wish I had more for her to dump. And really -doesn’t that picture just make you smile? Laugh? Grin? Anything? I love it.
If that didn’t get you grinning, this Valentine, made by my four year old cousin will:Photobucket
He later added three sequins under it -a nice touch, if you ask me. Come to find out, he was trying to write “L-I-E” which is the last three letters of his sister’s name. He just got a little mixed up. I’m so glad. I’ve pulled that picture about eleven million times today, just to laugh at it.
Just as the party was ending and parents were picking children up, a white truck pulled into my driveway. The fire chief got out of it. I knew he was coming -he was dropping off some paperwork for my husband.
That’s what fire chiefs specialize in -paperwork. Not that I would know, but it seemed reasonable. I bought it. I BOUGHT it.Photobucket
Of course I bought it.
Because my husband bought me the purple flowers days before and THEY were my Valentine’s flowers, per tradition! I always got Valentine’s flowers the week before Valentine’s Day because we’ve always been too poor to afford something as dazzling as delivery. I don’t mean to say that we’re rich. We’re not. We are not. Financially, we are not. That’s why I got the purple flowers. That’s why my jaw hit the floor when the fire chief handed me a dozen red roses with a card attached from my husband.  The thing is: the fire chief’s wife works at Pat’s.  Photobucket

These mean a great deal to me, and if you’re going to guffaw over flowers and chocolates and The Hoax That Is Valentine’s Day, please don’t stop reading. What I’m about to write really doesn’t concern all that directly. It mostly concerns my parents.
Every year on Valentine’s Day, my mother would get a bouquet DELIVERED to her. It was always beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. As a little girl, I used to watch the excitement on my mother’s face. The flowers always made her glow, and I loved knowing that something my dad gave to my mom made her feel that way. He always ordered the arrangements from the same place. Pat’s. I frequented Pat’s in high school, picking up my brother’s corsage orders and my orders for those, you know… flowers you pin on the boy that are called by a name I can’t spell… boutennieres. Buttonierres. Boo-tun-ears.
Anyway, the place smells fabulous.

I never, ever told my husband about my mother’s Valentine delivery flowers. All I ever DID tell him was that I appreciated what he got. I also must mention that I’m a fan of brightly-colored grocery store bouquets. I am not a fan of grocery store roses. Am I a snob?
Well, yeah. I see that now. It isn’t entirely my fault. It’s my Dad’s, really! And this isn’t the first time he’s done this to me. My first year away from home, it took me nearly 10 minutes to buy a bell pepper. One. Bell Pepper. I picked one after another up and scoffed. Nothing was good enough! I had no idea people LIVED like that, scraping by on scrawny wilted peppers.  They looked nothing like the beauties my dad could turn out.  I won’t even get into the time I paid $4 for one watery tomato.
And steaks. My Dad makes the best steaks I’ve ever had. I didn’t know they were the best at first. I just thought they were steaks. Steaks were steaks and steaks were great. And then one day, one fateful day, I ordered a steak… at a restaurant.
It was disgusting.
I couldn’t eat it! I could not eat it! I’ve never been a picky eater, and I considered sending it back to the cook with a post-it note: This isn’t steak. I don’t know what it is, but I know what it isn’t… steak.
I didn’t do that. I was a junior high kid on a field trip, so I didn’t do that. But I went home and hugged a package of my Dad’s fresh steak. Okay I didn’t do that either. At least, not until I was in college and home for a visit.

My husband has told me time and again how much he loves that he married a girl who isn’t high maintenance. Granted, I do insist on growing a garden, but that saves money! I do insist on buying and butchering a cow so we’ll have fresh beef, but in the long run that ALSO saves money (steak at roughly $1 a pound? Yes, please!) but now there’s this whole FLOWER mess that has me rethinking my very character!
I thought I was down to earth.
I thought I was reasonable.
I thought I didn’t need flowers.
Truths:
I’ve been spoiled.
I do need flowers, but only a certain type that make me feel exactly like my one year old cousin when she’s dumping stickers on the table… confident, a little reckless, and a lotta happy.Photobucket
Happy Valentine’s Day to you.

PS: who wants to break the news to my husband that I’m expensive? I don’t.  Oh, who am I kidding?  He’s figured it out by now.

Beautiful

A while back, my husband and I went to the city with our kids, and it wasn’t a disaster.  Back then, the kids weren’t into fighting.  They were cherubims who shared and hugged and spread pixie dust everywhere they walked.  Right?  Whatever they were, they were easier to take to the city then than they are now.

On that particular day, my husband took us out to eat at The Olive Garden.  He used to work at an Olive Garden when he was growing up and he’s always been sort of attached to their Chicken con Broccoli (which I’m pretty sure isn’t even on the menu anymore but they make it if you ask for it).  As always, he ordered Chicken con Broccoli and I ordered soup, salad, and breadsticks (by far and away my favorite thing to get).  Our food came, and I leaned over to help the kids eat their maca-ernie (that’s what it’s called at our house) and cheese.  As I finished, I looked up to find my husband looking at me.

“You,” he said, as he speared a piece of chicken with his fork and then pointed it at me, “are a beautiful woman.”

I don’t mean to throw him under the bus by saying this, BUT: it had been so long since I’d heard that!  I was taken completely off guard and it shocked me.  I didn’t know what to do, and instead of doing something rational like THANKING him, I just…

cried.

Right into my minestrone.

How very feminine of me, I know.  Needless to say, after that he was a little more prone to voicing his positive thoughts about the way I looked.

A few days ago, he told me that I was beautiful and I blushed -a huge step up from blubbering over bread sticks.  I asked him (after thanking him) if he remembered the day I cried in The Olive Garden.  He said that he did, and I went on to tell him that above anything else, a woman just wants to hear that she’s beautiful.

It’s nice to hear that dinner was good, that the house looks nice, that I’m funny or nice or cute.  But to be told that I’m beautiful?  It means the world to me.

“It means the world to any girl to hear that she’s beautiful,” I told him as we drove down the road to our (fated) trip to the city, “Watch… say it to your daughter.”

My husband adjusted the rear view mirror so he could see her better.

“Lacy,” he said, catching her eyes, “You’re a beautiful girl.”  Instantly, a smile spread across her face and she tucked her head down.  She looked out the window because she was embarrassed.  Later on that day, we heard her singing from her car seat.

“Daddy says I’m byoot-i-ful… Daddy says I’m byoot-i-ful…”

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(I made us some aprons from the same fabric and she’s beside herself with joy. When we wear them, she holds the matching fabrics up next to each other.)

Daddy speaks the truth.

My Little Pretties

On Saturday we spent the day in the city.  It seemed we had run out of nearly everything in our house, and I was feeling a little Mother Hubbardish.  I had been looking forward to our trip to the city for days.  I wasn’t excited about spending the amount of money I knew we were going to have to spend, but I was looking forward to GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE.  The kids and I have a bad case of cabin fever.

Yesterday it got so bad that I had to clear out completely.  I packed up the kids, drove twenty four miles to the nearest Wal-Mart, breathed a sigh of relief, and then spent money, got after the kids for fighting, and came home completely exhausted.  Yes, it would have been better to have stayed at home.  My hindsight vision is so clear it’s maddening.

Our day in the city started off wonderfully.  My husband and children went with me into the newly remodeled Joanne’s Fabrics where I nearly fainted with enthusiasm.  I wasn’t able to browse like I would have liked to, but I found what I needed and we went to check out. (I picked up a book titled Apron-ology in the magazine section, fawned over it and then replaced it.  My husband picked it back up and bought it for me.  It has been my constant companion ever since.)  The computers at the registers weren’t functioning quite right, so the line was long.  People were impatient.  Quilters and crocheters alike were beginning to voice their annoyance.  My children were busy rummaging through the displays at the check-out line.

Wooden birdhouses?

Candy?

Books?

Their joy was complete.  My husband and I looked lovingly at each other.  Our eyes locked and spoke (though we never spoke out loud) saying, ‘What little DARLINGS!’

We scooped them up and read books to them.  A woman a few feet in front of us who spoke as business-like as she dressed said, “Your children and beautiful, and they are very well-behaved.”

We thanked her and our eyes locked again.  What little DARLINGS!

As we walked out of Joanne’s and into Bookman’s, my husband confessed that when the woman had complimented our children’s behavior, his chest had puffed out about three feet.  I wrapped one arm around him, told him he was a good dad, and then basked in the wonderfullnes of the day I had been looking forward to for so long.

After Bookman’s, we went to Sam’s Club.  We had to spend SO much money on food.  We went beyond the budget, which we both knew we would but there was no getting around it this time.  The kids had spent the entire shopping trip annoyed with the fact that the other breathed, touched things, and generally existed.  My husband and I walked out of the bulk shopping warehouse with absolutely no bounce in our step, which is ironic given that our pockets were lightyears lighter.  We unloaded the car, buckled the kids in, climbed into our seats and locked eyes.  They were both worn and wary.

“The little stinkers,” I said audibly.  My husband shook his head, and off we went to our last shopping destination.

Super Wal-Mart.  I had to finish our shopping list.

At this point, my once-bouncy hair was limp and frazzled.  My make-up had fallen.  My posture was laughable.  With both kids in tow, my husband and I ventured into the store.

The kids were still at each other’s throats.  They kicked, they touched, they fought, they fought over the food I put into the cart.  They fought over their coats.  They fought over EVER-EE-THING.  I tried to get through the store as quickly and efficiently as my energy would allow.  I didn’t realize that my son had gotten ahold of the Mac n’Cheese.  And can I just say?  We just FED them.  We took them out for “chicken dip its” which, as we all know, is chicken strips.Photobucket
I took it away from him and tried to keep it away from him, but his sister got it and tried EATING the dry macaroni that was escaping.
In frustration, I tried to increase my speed and efficiency. But by the time I’d made it to the cold cereal, my son had taken my glass bottle of red wine vinegar and dropped it over the side of the cart. It broke on the hard floor and the distinct odor of vinegar wafted through the store. I sent my husband for help and with marked embarrassment, I explained to a lady sporting a mop what had happened. She cheerfully sent me on my way, and I apologized my brains out, even after Mop Lady was out of ear shot.
Once at check out, the cashier gasped when she picked up the Macaroni and Cheese box.
“Do we have RODENTS?” She asked, horrified.
“You don’t,” I said, warily pointing to my son, “But I do.”

I have two, in fact. Two “well behaved” little rodents. One of which came home, grabbed his Iron Man fleece blanket and blue pillow, and mad a bed on my piano bench.
Photobucket
We all slept REALLY hard that night.
The moral to the story: next time we need to go to Sam’s Club, WE ARE GETTING A SITTER FOR THE DAY.

When Was It?

Throughout our marriage, my husband has always pin-pointed the “moment” he fell in love with me.

“When I took you home to meet my family,” he said.  He took me home A WEEK after we’d started dating.  I was a wreck.  Seriously.  Coming from a small town, I already knew the parents of everyone I had dated.  I’d never had to meet any before.  But I did.  I put on my John Deere shirt, my overalls, my lucky red shoes, and I DID IT.

As we spent the weekend with his family, my husband never said one word about love.  He didn’t say one word about love the next weekend either, when I took revenge and drove him home to meet MY family (it wasn’t really revenge though.  With steaks like my dad makes?  Oh, boy).  He didn’t say a word about love anytime that month.

Finally, right when I was cleaning out my college house to move home, he sat me down on the couch and he told me he thought he might be falling in love with me.

The truth was, he was already gone.  Done fallen.  But he wanted to tread the waters of love on the safe shallow end instead of jumping off the high dive into the deep end (on account of other women treatin’ him bad.  It’s all very vintage country music, minus the whiskey).

Finally, on June 1st 2004 (happy birthday, Tia!) I told him that I loved him.  And he said it back.  And 26 days later we got engaged.  And six 1/2 years later, we stayed up after the kids had gone to bed and engaged in a heated game of Pirates Battleship.  What can I say?  We’re too cheap to pay a babysitter for our hot Friday night date.  I’m happy to report that I beat him, fair and square.  I’m also happy to report that he made a hot chocolate run and added french vanilla creamer to both of our cups, just like we used to do when we were dating and he lived next to a Circle K.  So delicious.

After we were done playing, we started talking.  I’m going to confess to you right now that we actually talked until 3:15.  As in: AM.  Why do we do that to ourselves?  Why, oh why?  Because there’s so much to talk about, I guess.  There’s so much to laugh about.  Apparently, there’s still a few things to reveal.  For example, I finally confessed that I hate belly buttons.  They really gross me out, and I refuse to touch mine unless I’m pregnant and it’s flat.  He confessed something as well.  He told me that the weekend he took me home to meet his family, there was a particular kiss.  He described it.  I remembered it.

He confessed that THAT kiss… THAT moment… was it.  The exact moment that he fell in love and knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.  The rest is history in the making.

Men Are From Mars

During our date Friday night, I mentioned a girl I knew.  I only had good things to say about her.  She’s very beautiful.  She takes great care of her physical appearance.

“I really admire her,” I said.

“Yeah?” My husband asked, trying to sound interested.

“Yeah, you deserve someone like that -someone gorgeous and skinny and gorgeous and skinny.”

“What?” He asked.

“The kids should have a mother who sets a better example.  I should be more like that.  I should take better care of myself.”

My husband, the poor guy, didn’t really know what to say.  The fact is: in a matter of three miles, I went from admiring a girl I knew to factually PROVING what a terrible wife and mother I was.  He eventually cut my pity-party short and called me back to reality.

I asked him how he did it.

“Men don’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Go from thinking well of one man to completely hating themselves.”

“Nope,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.  “What’s the secret?”

“Secret?”

(I love the ability men have to form answers in one solitary word, often times an echo of what they’ve just heard.)

“Yeah.  What’s the secret?  Please tell me.  I’ll write a book and we’ll make millions.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“Try and think…” I pleaded, dollar signs blinging in my eyes.

“Just…” He started -I held my breath.

“Get over it,” he finished.

So there you have it.  The secret.  The know-how.  The key to confidence.  I pried his deepest feelings from his heart and THAT’S what I got.

Treasure it, ladies.  Treasure it.

Goin’ Courtin’

A few months ago, I uncharacteristically nagged my husband about the simple fact that we didn’t do much together.  I wanted to broaden our common interests, spend more time getting to really know one another, and consequently create a more solid foundation.  Solidify our relationship.

Solid, solid, solid.

Solid is the key word.

I see it as not only enriching but PREVENTATIVE as well.  At first he thought I was crazy.  I didn’t blame him because, frankly, he’s got a point.  I let the issue slide, but it nagged at me.  I didn’t really mean to, but I ended up nagging my husband about it.  It all came to nothing, as nagging usually does, and I became distracted with other things: self-improvement, self-growth, blah, blah, blah.

And then something happened.

I got a text from my husband.  He told me he’d taken some time and read through all of the emails we’d sent one another when we were dating and living 4 hours from each other.

“I have to say I’m a very lucky guy,” he texted.  Naturally, I pried open his mind and absolutely fished for compliments, as any woman would.  This is what came of it.

“You’re just an awesome girl!  You love me more than anyone ever has and I think I’ve taken that for granted…I’ve just realized I need to do a better job of nurturing the good thing we have.”

And… melt.  Right there.  On the spot.  But wait.  There’s more!  He proceeded to ask me out on a date, and I proceeded to accept.  Through no fault of my own or his, I ended up completely planning the date.  Okay, so maybe it was my fault.  But what it comes down to is this: I got an idea.  If you know me at all, you know what happens when I get an idea.  Nothing stops me.  My husband didn’t mind because, as he later confessed, he had “planned” to take me to dinner.  Somewhere.

Through a little Internet browsing, I decided it would be really fun to pick a recipe we could cook together.  I found a recipe for Shrimp and Artichoke Pasta, something that just SCREAMED my husband’s name, and I copy/pasted it to Microsoft Word where I could bend the font to my heart’s desire.  I then made a shopping list and printed it out along with the recipe.  I cleaned the house from top to bottom.

Seriously.  I MOPPED.  You must understand how serious this made things.

Then I washed our aprons.  Truth: I bought my husband a discarded Olive Garden apron at Savers a few years ago.  It’s black and manly.  It’s a beaut.  And the apron’s pretty sleek, too.

Getting the ingredients for this particular recipe turned out to be pretty expensive, and I even omitted the proper cheese on account of it’s costing $10 for a little slice.  I’m country, okay.  Cheese shouldn’t be that hard or that expensive.

We perused the aisles of the dingy Safeway and bought marinated artichokes, red pepper flakes, FRESH basil (which nearly killed me with sheer happiness), shrimp, sparkling cider… and the list went on.  Once home, we made the most beautiful mess in my newly-cleaned kitchen.  My husband put on Norah Jones Pandora Station, and we cooked.

The first thing we did was chop.  I taught my husband how to chop by leaving the tip of the fat knife on the cutting board and only lifting the back of the knife.  He was prodigious good at it.  I taught him how to SLAM a cup down on top of a clove of garlic to get the waxy crap off.  He really took to that.

I asked him to sautee the olive oil and garlic.  He did.  And then, on account of my not thawing the shrimp in time, we burned it. Here’s a picture of him burning the garlic.  See how forced that smile is?  He really did have fun.  Don’t let that face fool you.

We tossed out the burned mess and started anew.  Afresh.  All over again.

The smells that came from the range-top were OH-HO so GOOD.

I have the cutest apron that my mother-in-law gave me for my birthday. I’ve used it SO much! I feel bad using something so beautiful. Really, I ought to just hang it on the wall and look at it. But as you can see, I use the heck out of it.

The dinner turned out really well. My husband put our sparkling cider on ice. I cleaned and vigorously dusted our fancy glasses (we literally haven’t used them in years. How sad). Don’t mind that this picture isn’t very pretty. We’re not photographers. We’re chefs. Obviously.
I might also add that the Parmesan that you sprinkle on is light years cheaper than that other stuff. Oh, and the Sunflower plates were a wedding gift from my aunts and uncles.  Sunflowers are my very favorite and were the flowers of choice at our wedding reception.  I LOVE that set!

This picture doesn’t do this dish justice.  Holy stinkin’ heck, it was divine.Yes, there’s leftovers.

Yes, I’m thinking of eating them for breakfast.

Yes, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.

My husband held me close last night after we ate and danced with me to our favorite song.  As we danced, he apologized for not planning the date he asked me on and then confessed that he had a date planned -a surprise date -for Valentine’s Day.  I was so happy I took him out for ice cream.  Right then and there.

Can’t wait. Can not wait!

Resties

The kids and I are pathetic.

My fever went down yesterday, so LIKE A DANG FOOL I got up and slowly cleaned.  I thought the whole “slowly” thing justified it.

“I am taking it easy,” I told myself, “By doing it slowly.”  And then I thought how nice it would be for my husband -who has been running himself ragged trying to take care of us and work -to come home to some corn chowder, one of his favorite dishes.

I even took plenty of time to lie down between picking-up jobs and dish washings.

Right before the chowder finished cooking, my fever returned and I had to run to the bathroom for the first of what turned out to be three terrible bloody noses.  Okay, did I phrase that right?  It makes it sound like I have three noses.

Anyway, last night turned out to be really bad.  The poor kids’ bodies have HAD it, and though mine has too, I hate that I can’t get up and get back to life as I know it.  But I know if I don’t take it easy today, I’ll have another night like last night and I really think I’d rather slit my wrists and do a handstand in saltwater at this point.

BUT during the times that I actually did rest yesterday, I was able to snap a few pictures that I wanted to share.  The first is of my legs.  Have I ever told you how much I hate them?  Well, I USED to.  They were the bane of my existence.  They were awkward and long, and I was just sure that my life would never achieve it’s true measure of happiness until someone came along with a miracle medical procedure that would shave off a good 5 inches from both sides.

I blamed them for my utter lack of grace.

I blamed my utter lack of grace for my lack of popularity.

I blamed my lack of popularity on my acne.

I blamed my acne for never having any boys interested in me.

So really, my legs were at the root of all these rather radical evils.  Somewhere between living with a roommate with long legs like mine and being six years into marriage, I quit worrying about my legs.

I stopped hating them.

Remarkably, I made more friends, experienced significantly less acne problems, developed a serious relationship with a seriously hot boy (I thought he was a man until I looked at those pictures we developed a couple weeks ago.  Shoot, he was just a kid!), and became magnificently graceful!

Okay, that last one was a lie wishful thinking.

Yesterday as my son slept on the floor next to the couch, I had to snap a picture.  This angle isn’t the best to see it, but my son is SO tiny!  He has the littlest bones and the tiniest frame.  The best part about his body is his big rolly-polly head.  I love to watch him walk around.  I’ve got my very own LIVE little bobble-head.Photobucket
As I sat and watching him sleep, I looked over his thin little body and I couldn’t help but think of “My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding” when Toula’s aunt pinched someone’s (can’t remember whose) collar bone and says, “I could snap you like a chicken!”

I love my little guy. I love that he is sleeping less (though he is sleeping now) and I love that he woke up throwing punches about thirty minutes ago. Must’ve been SOME dream.
While he took the nap you see in the picture above, Lacy crawled on my lap. I let her, and we watched a movie together. Soon enough I looked down and noticed something.
My legs.
Guess what? I LOVE them! I LOVE my legs. I love my long, covered-in-black-hair-but-glaringly-white-underneath LEGS! They’re still long. They’re still awkward. But guess what else they are?Photobucket
Best dang recliner on the block, by jingo!Photobucket
They aren’t sexy, but they’re able.
Hm.
That sentence might just be the theme for my entire body. I’ll have a shirt made, shall I? Have those words emblazoned across the chest?Photobucket

The last picture I have to share with you is revealing. I’m not talking about my chest anymore, so don’t get any ideas.
I’m talking about my housekeeping.
Keep in mind, I’ve been playing nurse since Jan.1, breaking only to be sick myself.
Yes, my tree is still up. I haven’t had a second to take it down, and that’s the gospel truth. But look past that, if you can, to see my daughter with my lap apron tied across her chest. She’s washing the windows with a baby wipe.
They’re so “clean” now!Photobucket
Doesn’t that picture make you happy?

Well, SOMEONE has got to pick up the slack since mom’s literally fallen down on the job -might as well be Lace.

Plagued and Blessed but Not Blessed by Plague

A few weeks ago, I dropped Lacy off at preschool and remarked to my aunt (who was teaching) that my son had croup.

“We haven’t been sick for a long time,” I knocked on wood, “So I guess it’s our turn.”

I had no idea the ill forces of germs swirling around me heard what I said.

“You turn?  Your turn?” They buzzed around me, clinging to my jeans and hovering over my lips.

The croup came and went.  Then it was the colds.  Then it was pink eye.  Before Lacy’s was gone, Trent had it.  Before Trent’s was gone, Lacy started coughing.

She’s still coughing.

His eye is still showing signs of The Pink Death.

And last night, in the middle of our mad dash to the city to spontaneously catch a late-night showing of “Tangled,” my dear boy started heating up.  Smack dab in the middle of the action that literally had his sister on the EDGE of her seat, he clawed his way to my chest and fell fast asleep.Photobucket

Last night, he refused his bed and asked in a very worn, small voice for “Mama…”  That voice, it turns out, has the ability to melt me completely and quickly.

Yes, son I’ll hold you.

Yes, son I’ll give you $20.

Yes, son here’s the keys to the car.

Yes, son you can live with me forever.

We had a blast at the movies.  We haven’t set foot outside in days, and it was great to really escape for just a few hours.  The fortunate thing about having my husband as my husband is that he loves his family sososo much.  Like… he does whatever he can to take care of us but still insists on spending tons of time with us.  How he manages it is beyond me.

We took a mad dash to the city on Saturday to take care of our BIG shopping trip.  I hired out one of my piano students to watch the kids from 10 am to 6 pm.  We shopped bulk.  We shopped Wal-Mart.  We shopped Target.  We shopped Claire’s (on account of the birthday girl).  Our pocketbook did not escape unscathed.  So when my husband balanced his checkbook to see how much dough was left over to see IF we could make it to the movies… he drew a dire conclusion: nope.  No movie for the birthday girl.

There’s a local theater, and we thought we’d just take her there.  I looked them up online for movie times and prices, and they weren’t open yesterday.  I texted the news to my husband who instantly texted back that WE WOULD FIND A WAY.  I found a missing check for $30.  He counted the change in his change jar.  We all rejoiced and made the trek to the late night showing on what little we had.Photobucket
(dad bought the kids little kiddie snack combos with his quarters. What a man.)
And you know what?  It was 233449% WORTH IT.  It makes facing yet another day of sickness and cancelling practically everything I’m supposed to attend to doable.Photobucket

Family has a way of doing that to you.

And by “that” I mean sharing sickness.

By “that” I mean making you laugh so hard you cough your lungs into your throat.

By “that” I mean bolstering your spirits when you haven’t had a hint of sunlight in weeks and are starting to show signs of Cullen.

By “that” I mean loving you enough to put two feet under you when you can’t put them there for yourself.

As we were getting ready to leave the theater, my daughter thanked me for “her movie” and then went on to say, “I will just keep my mom and dad and when we wake up in the morning time, we will come to flag and it will be my birthday and I will be FIVE!”

She has NO IDEA how true that is.  It feels like she was born yesterday.  Surely she’ll be at least FIVE tomorrow, if not 15.Photobucket