The Tired, Apolitical Mother

So apparently I have led people to believe that I actually am keeping up with this upcoming election because I keep getting emails from friends, family, and acquaintences that rail and support both sides. This leads me to believe that maybe I am somewhat of a social chameleon - do I change my opinions and ideas based on who I am with? How is that some people are believing that I am a staunch Republican while others think I am for sure a Dem? Upon further reflection on this topic this evening (this occurred after one glass of one of the best chardonnays under the sun that Classic Old Spice recently bought me for my 35th) I realized that no, I am not really a social chemeleon but rather the world's biggest fence sitter, swing-voter, non-political person out there. I cringe once political discussions begin because let's all face it - when have any of these ever gone well? Has anyone ever successfully convinced someone to cross to their side during on of these arguments? The second people start bickering and talking over one another on CNN or MSNBC, I have to change the channel regardless of how good they are because quite truthfully, I hear enough bickering during the day that I don't need to hear anymore anytime soon. Before you think I might be Maxine from one of those greeting cards, let me set something straight - I do care. Really, I do. I just don't have the time or the energy right now to really care enough. There is a difference and a distinction here and while this could launch many into a "Oh how pathetic and unfortunate...She used to be so smart and have so much going for her but now that she stays home her most pressing concern is the destroyed "Thomas the Tank Engine" DVD case from the library that Bubba Boo teethed to death and forced her to pay a $5 damage fee. How very sad that her little pea brain can't grasp today's policital agendas and plans. Another one bites the dust..." Why is it that I just don't really care right now? Well, let's look at Exhibit A...

I begin my day with my newest alarm clock, My Sweet One (name comes from my favorite Phish song called "My Sweet One" in which I now have all of my family singing and for some reason, I immediately began singing to my newest little guy as soon as he was born, hence why he is now called "My Sweet One") I get him fed and changed then have to get Missy Moo who refuses to leave her room in the morning until Mommy comes to get her. We change our pull-up and put on underpants while I juggle My Sweet One who just might at any moment belt out a frat-boy burp that shakes the walls and then we head downstairs to start breakfast. Notice that I did not get Bubba Boo at this point - this would be because he still cannot maneuver going downstairs yet and must be carried and while I can do many things, I choose not to carry both babies down the stairs at the same time (I am sure mom's of multiples are laughing at me right about now but hey, this is my world). Once I get some kind of peace going in the kitchen and get my coffee brewing (the holy grail to all mothers), THEN I can get Bubba Boo who is often about to catapult himself out of his crib and usually has a nice, fresh poo almost up his entire back ready to greet me. Once we get that little scene taken care of, he then eats breakfast and my day of herding cats and spinning plates begins. I am not going to drone on and on about the rest of my day because quite truthfully, while there is some semblance of a schedule and routine, there is really not what one would call a typical day ever. Plans often get derailed. Shoes get lost that slow us down. Sippy cups get flung across the room onto heads. Stinky pants emerge just as we are getting into the car. Ghost bottle feedings pop-up unplanned and halt everyone for about thirty minutes. In other words, stuff happens. Heck, I am just impressed when I can actually get out of my jammies and out the door with all three of my muffins also dressed, snacks and sippies in hand, and securely fastened to their seats. Let's just say that we have preschool, Mom's Day Out, tumbling class, and Parent-Infant-Toddler classes peppered with doctor's appointments, trips to the grocery store, and trips to the grocery store. Did I mention we go to the grocery store a lot? Suffice it to say, when it comes to the elephant and the donkey, I immediately think of my children's Little People farm - not the upcoming election. Am I stuck in my own little world? Am I pathetic? Am I going to hear from people who say "Well, don't you care about your children's futures?" My answer to those questions would be yes, probably, and yes. However, while none of my children have a completed baby book (you would not BELIEVE the looks of shock I get when I tell people this - talk about mommy guilt! Missy Moo has one that I wrote in sporadically and neither of the boys have them yet. I promise I remember everything...I promise...) and I often worry they will grow up to feel like they were not important enough to their mommy to warrant the time of filling one out, I am often jolted back to the fact that the time I would likely spend writing in their baby books is the time that I prefer to be on the floor playing with them. Rolling cars off the overturned chair in the play room that only an 18 month old boy would think to do. Playing Littlest Pet Shop. Coloring. Finger-painting. Dancing, laughing, baking cookies - you get the drift. Will my children be sad that they don't have a baby book or will they reflect and love their childhood memories of playtime with mommy? In a nutshell, this stuff takes time and lots and lots of energy (again, thank you dear Lord for coffee) By the time I flop into bed at the end of the evening, I really just want to read People magazine. Regardless, I am going to try to bone up on the Decision of 2008 once the debates begin - if I can stay awake long enough to actually watch them...Until then, I will be turning off my television once the bickering begins and changing the subject when friends start to go off on political tangents because really, life is just too darn short. I don't have a lot of spare time and I don't want to spend it debating over oil, health care, education, and, the hot-button of all hot-buttons, the war. I do believe we need to see some reform and change for the better but I also readily admit that I don't have the answers and may not be able to hammer any out anytime soon. Does this make me apolitical? Maybe. Do I not care? No - I am just tired.

So Unhip I'm Hip

I can't exactly put a finger on when I started to somewhat lose my "coolness" factor but I am thinking it was somewhere in the past five years...I must admit that while I won't blame this entirely on my children, there is somewhat of a correlation between when I had my first child and when I started to slip a bit on the "cool" barometer. Though I certainly don't want to sound like I am ridiculously full of myself, I must confess that there was indeed a time in which I was a pretty cool chick. I enjoyed my free time sipping good wine, doing some fun shopping in which I wore pretty trendy, cute clothes, and jetting around the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis in my convertible Cabrio with the stereo up and a not a care in the world. In those same days, I would often stop in at La Jolla for an after-work margartia, go home and read People magazine before drifting off for a nap and then get ready to hit the scene for the evening by 9 p.m. I would then eat a late dinner and hit the bars in which one could always count on a somewhat lengthy evening. I mean, come on - there was an entire circle of us that did the same thing every weekend and we were indeed quite hip and fun. In other words, I had a darn good time in my youth, dammit. So now fast forward to about eight years later and I find myself recently walking through a Walgreen's with Missy Moo and Bubba Boo about six days after giving birth to my third child. For starters, I am a bit sore but so completely excited about getting out of my house that I am actually really jacked to go to the drugstore - not to mention proud of myself that I could get both of my older kiddos out the door and leave my newbie behind with our wonderful sitter for just an hour. As those of us who have given birth know, there is sometimes a problem with being able to go to the bathroom after delivery - and I am not talking about urinating. Docs often recommend that one take a stool softener for a while until things begin to "regulate"*. Let me also mention that I live in a Big Ten college town in which there are always very cute, innocent (at least they look that way to me) students who call me "ma'am". So here we are walking through the aisles of Walgreen's and I am looking for Colace. Well, wouldn't you know I can't find the dang aisle of "laxatives" and here I am by the pharmacy anyway so I decide that I just really don't care what people think. Let me just state that this is the first sign that you are getting along in years - you just don't really care what people think. Truthfully, I am going to admit that I like this about being in my mid-thirties - it is very liberating to just simply put yourself ou t there and whoever doesn't like it, well, so what. La di freakin' da! I am who I am. On the other hand, I do want to shake the shoulders of these youngin's and say "Stop looking at me that way just because I drive a Honda Odessey and am looking for laxatives with my two babies in tow! I once went to the H.O.R.D.E. Fest, played Quarters and ate "burritos as big as your head" at three o'clock in the morning, too! You will be here someday!" Thankfully, I have a small amount of a filter left and to date, I have yet to do this to a poor unsuspecting soul who is simply trying to just do his or her job. So here we are looking for Colace when I stop to ask the very cute 20-something male pharmacy technician where I might find this wonder-drug. Instead of flirting with the darling boy as I would have done in my carefree twenties, I now look at him and think of either of my two boys and what they will be like when they will be in college and then I also think that he is someone's son and his mom is probably wondering what he is doing and wanting to squeeze him so hard that he shirks away in embarrassment though he will secretly love it... Of course, said cutie has no idea where the Colace is located and must ask someone else, thus getting another person involved in my laxative hunt at Walgreen's. Once the cutie emerges to escort me to the laxative aisle (could there be anything more humbling? I mean really...), Missy Moo begins to turn this little quest into her newest littly ditty - have I mentioned that she is a budding songwriter? "Colace, Colace, mommy needs her Colace!" begins to be sung at top volume as we journey through the aisles behind the darling technician. It is not until we reach the checkout line that I realize that I didn't even care - in fact, it gave me a much-needed laugh at my own expense. Yes, there was a time when I would have been mortified at this but now, I have to relish in the fact that frankly, I don't give a damn. I have caught myself looking so scary and smelling so funky and yet still piling the crew into the truckster to go on an outing because there is just no time to attend to anything other than getting snacks, drinks, diapers, formula, pacifiers, and shoes. One must is my travel coffee and this always outweighs the need for primping, therefore, when I do catch sight of myself in a passing mirror, I am a little scared but hey - who has time for that? I like to think I look more real now and this would reflect who I am now in the inside of my soul - more real. The reality is that we are not always going to look perfect and care who is dating who and wearing what. At some point, we all grow up to realize that there is just so much more than that and my so much more is the world of snacks, boo-boo's, sippy cups, Laurie Berkner music, princesses, and trucks. My "so much more" is so much more that I am content with the new "unhip" of me. Besides, isn't it always the mortifyingly unhip that eventually becomes hip again? Well, here I am...

Excuse Me - Where is my Red Tent?

So I had a baby a month ago...Needless to say, things in this world have been a little on the, shall we say, chaotic side. Classic Old Spice and I are now officially outnumbered as adults - there are three small charges to our two older beings which certainly makes it interesting when everyone is screaming at the same time as was the case yesterday and will certainly happen at least a million times before we die. During my pregnancy, I read a great book entitled The Red Tent by Anita Diamant in which she tells a somewhat fictionalized account of the biblical story of Dinah, the only daughter of Leah who was the wife of Jacob. Leah's sister, Rachel, was also married to Jacob who in turn raised Dinah as well. Since Jacob seemed to really enjoy his right as a husband, it seemed as though someone was always pregnant, which of course, I can relate to since I feel as though I have now been pregnant for four years...The Red Tent was literally a tent in which women were required to inhabit while menstruating or for the month following the birth of a child. During either of these times, the women were expected to rest, eat well, and generally do nothing but just wait out their menses or heal from the vigors of childbirth. When a new baby needed to nurse, someone would simply take the baby to the mother, let them nurse and cuddle for a bit, then send the little person back to whoever was taking care of him or her for the month in which the mother is in the tent. So this gets me to thinking, as I was experiencing throbbing pain in the perineum and my breasts were so sore that I would have hissed like a rabid raccoon should someone accidentally brush up against me, where the h&^% is MY red tent? I think the women in the biblical era were on to something that we as a modern society we now get jipped on - our world moves so fast these days that we can only spend 48 hours from the time in which our baby is born in the hospital then we are expected to go home and jump right back into the swing of things as if we just had a little tetanus shot instead of actually delivering a watermelon through a straw-hole. Now I know I am not one to moan too loudly as I have been blessed with a lot of help; however, let's face it - having a newborn is freakin' exhausting. No one tells you how incredibly difficult it is for the first couple of weeks and if they do, for some reason you thought this would not apply to you. The thing is, when one is so sleep-deprived that their contacts are pasted to their eyeballs and their speech is slurred and distracted, nothing good can happen. Small things that would not even be a blip on my radar screen suddenly become huge issues of drama in which I feel that I will only be able to work through with intense counseling. My fuse is MUCH shorter with my other two children who are also trying to figure out what this new little person means in their world - Missy Moo has decided that she loves Number Three so very much but she still cannot stand Bubba Boo and likes to make little songs up about how much she does not like him. She is now obsessed with being a cheerleader and wears her cheerleading costume ALL of the time and insists that everyone call her PomPom. When I mistakenly referred to her as her birth-given name the other day it was a full-on meltdown that would have put my post-partum weepiness to shame (this would be good work) then pushed Bubba Boo because he had the unfortunate timing to round the corner and tug on her hair a little at approximately that time. While on the subject of Bubba Boo, he thinks it is funny to hit the new baby and poke at his eyeballs to see how he will react. Classic Old Spice is hot and cold as am I - we are a great pair but nothing upsets the equilibrium of our relationship more than a new baby. Some days we are on the same page and other days I think I am going to poke his eyeballs out (maybe this is where Bubba Boo gets this desire to do so to Number Three?). We will get back on-track as this is our pattern following childbirth but in the meantime, we take it day by day. It would be so much easier if I could simply escape to my red tent - in fact, I would just now be emerging! Now that we are approaching Number Three's fifth week of life, we are starting to see glimmers of a new norm that will someday feel like this is the way it has always been. In the meantime, Classic Old Spice has begun construction on his "mini-house" as I am referring to it though it is technically a shed. This "shed" will be wired for electricity and will have heat and air conditioning so I am thinking, could this be my red tent? If I put a bed in it, do we think I could go there once a month for a few days while my menses decide to pay a visit? Do we think anyone would believe that a mysterious condition might develop and cause me to have my menses a few times a month thus requiring me to have to go to the red tent? Something tells me that this is not going to be an option even if I change my name to Leah or Rachel..

You'll Always Be My Baby

I often forget how spoiled I have become in the past year with having two children who predictably go to bed in the evenings and allow me to have time to myself and with Classic Old Spice but there is nothing that jolts that realization back into my brain quicker than a babe that for some reason (molars, allergies, ear infections - the list is endless) won't sleep.
Just last night my little guy (the one who is not occupying my womb) had the most difficult time sleeping and cried out at half hour intervals for about two to three hours. Each time I went to check on him, he was sitting straight up in his crib with the very most pathetically-sad expression while belting out a heartbreaking cry that would melt even the heart of Joan Crawford (remember the spooky "Mommy Dearest" movie? I think of her every time I throw away a wire hanger). You would have to be the most cold-hearted person on the planet to not pick this little muffin up out of his bed and cuddle and hug the daylights out of him. Yes, I am fully-aware that the "sleep experts", particularly the one I swear by (Marc Weisbluth, Healthy Sleep, Healthy Baby), say to never pick up a crying older baby from their crib hence they will simply be conditioned to your cuddles and love and do this each night, but sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind and go with what your mommy instinct tells you to do. Mine told me to pick that little Bubba Boo up and sit in that infamous green rocking chair until he settled down a bit so I did it. Immediately, I was shocked by the length of him - though my lap is pretty much non-existant right now since I am 40 weeks pregnant, I was still baffled by how much he had grown in just the past year alone. I was transported to a year ago when he was a little three month old peanut with acid-reflux and colic and cried constantly; it is amazing to think he is now this little being that laughs, claps his hands, dances to all kinds of music (particulary likes the "Happy Working Song" from the "Enchanted"movie and Dierks Bentley), walks, runs, runs some more, runs, and runs. He has recently taken to climbing on anything he can climb upon and has figured out how to open the door that leads from our hall to the garage - something Missy Moo just figured out how to do within the last six months or so. The physical prowess of boys is baffling - especially when your first child is a girl. Regardless, as I held this little guy who is trying to assert his independence from me but yet still needs me for love when his molars are hurting and will lay his head on my shoulder in the quiets of the night, I admit that I take advantage of the opportunity. He is so much on the go these days that to get cuddle time during the waking hours would alarm me - it would mean he was ill or injured because to hold him longer than 30 seconds invariably results in the arched back, "squirmy worm" pose, as Missy Moo calls it, and, if he is really angry, will add his high-pitched shriek that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. As he transitions from babyhood to the toddler world, to, eventually, preschool world, elementary world, preteen, God-forbid, teenage years, he will always hold the face I see now. The blonde curls that get curlier in the humidity and after running in the sprinkler, the chocolate brown eyes that replicate his daddy so closely it is scary, and well, the dimples. I have talked enough about the dimples but alas, they melt me. He will always be my baby - so much so that I am sure I will become one of those mothers that his wife/girlfriend will hand the phone over to him some wintry morning and say "It's your mother. She wants to be sure you are wearing your coat and that you have a scarf, gloves, and hat..." I am certain that later that same day, the same said woman will be having cosmos with her girlfriends and say things like "Samuel's mom is just so overbearing. For God's sakes, she called this morning to see if he was wearing his coat!" I know this because I have been that woman and said similar things about guys I have dated and the one I married. Now that I am a mommy, I get it - I will try my hardest not to become this (I am also fairly certain that if I do, Classic Old Spice will deprive me of all communication devices) but even if I don't make that call someday, it will be in my heart. And of course, not just for Bubba Boo. I marvel at the young girl Missy Moo is becoming - I love the sweet and funny things she says and I am astounded by her beauty and innocence, and yet, when I look into her eyes, I see the sweet face that greeted me upon exiting my womb and turned my world inside out by forcing me to wear my heart outside of my body. There is nothing like the birth of the first though you of course love all of your children and cherish each of their birth stories. What they all have in common? Even when they are 40, this mommy will still see the face of that baby...

Grossology

I will be completely honest and admit that I was not really prepared for the immense amount of occasions that I would be discussing bodily functions in such detail before I became a mother - I have found so many times recently that I am no longer caught off-guard by talking about bowel movements and their contents/shape/color/size or the fact that I would be having a discussion with my three year old about where and where it is not appropriate to wipe "boogers". Let's simply look at just this past 24 hours...As I have mentioned before, I have a small (OK, BIG) problem with bladder control (those keeping track, I am STILL pregnant and due next week) these days and the smallest sneeze, cough, or laugh can force me to have to change my pants (thank God Missy Moo is now potty-trained - she is the only person who is home during the day that does not require frequent change of drawers). So after my doctor's appointment today, I treated myself to a fantastic chicken salad sandwich and Sunchips from one of my favorite deli's in Indianapolis. While driving on 465 West, the smallest of small Sunchip went down the wrong pipe and forced me to cough deliriously and yes, you guessed correctly...Suffice it to say, I then was forced to put napkins in my panties in an attempt to absorb the small accident that had occurred (is this TMI - even for my blog? Oh dear...I have lost my filter). I can only imagine what the drivers around me were thinking as they saw an almost 39 week pregnant woman driving down the interstate reaching into her panties...Luckily, this was a small leak (I have learned to flex down there very quickly) and was quickly rectified so I was able to move on to finishing my lunch and retrieve Missy Moo from summer camp in a timely manner. We made it home only to discover that she needed to have a "poopie" and became quite alarmed when it appeared to be blue and truthfully, I did as well. Just as I was about to call her pediatrician since I was convinced she had some rare disease of the bowels, I remembered the cupcake she ate with fluoresent blue icing on July 4. There is was, making another appearance for us all! I was then able to get Bubba Boo down for his nap and moved on to Missy Moo where I read a quick story and tucked her in. I was sprinting for the door (I MUST sleep for at least an hour in the afternoons these days) when Missy Moo says "Oh mommy - I had a booger but it is gone now." Of course, I stopped in my tracks and calmly asked her where she placed this "booger" at which she replied, with a proud smile, "on top of my Dora Talking House." Sure enough, there is was in all of it's glory thus prompting me on the forementioned discussion as to where and where it is not appropriate to wipe our noses. I must admit that her response was priceless - she simply stated, in her three year old innocence, "Oops - sorry, Mommy." Now who could ever keep a straight face on this one? And while Missy Moo is the subject of most of this grossology just today, it is usually Bubba Boo who takes the cake in this category. A few nights ago, the poor little guy had a horrific-smelling diaper, was wet from playing in a bowl of water outside not to mention sudsy due to his fascination with bubbles, had a runny nose, and one could see actual dirt on his face. Yes, "all-boy" I know and of course, would I take them any other way? Now as far as Classic Old Spice goes, I plead the spousal confidentiality card on this one...

Much Ado About Well...Nothing...

Alright, alright, I admit it - I am a slacker blogger these days. I find that it is difficult to be as prolific as I would like to be with just the two children under three factor; however, I must confess that I am now 35 weeks pregnant and quite frankly, I am tired. It is the kind of tired that you are certain could possibly label you as clinically insane and even when I know I am being unreasonable and acting like a complete loon, I can't stop myself. For starters, I am huge. In fact, so huge that I turned around on my front porch the other day and knocked our sweet, petite little four year old neighbor straight down on her bottom with my ridiculously-sized abdomen. The worst part? I didn't even feel it - it wasn't until I noticed she had fallen that I deducted it was due to my sumo-style gut. Yes, I do realize that I am pregnant, and you better believe I love that I can bring children into the world but oh my, did I ever forget how brutal the latter part of the third trimester can be... I remember with my last pregnancy, my beloved OBGYN, who I am driving an hour away to deliver with in another city because I love him so much, said to me "Mother Nature sure has a sense of humor - just when you should be getting rest, she makes sure you get up at least every two hours to go to the bathroom so you can feel as unrested as possible." Amen, brother - it is constant. I stop intaking fluids usually around 6 p.m. yet the spring religiously begins around 11 o'clock each night...Where is God's name does all of this fluid come from? Oh yes - must be from the bags deposited under my eyes and the fluid pooling in my ankles... My poor husband is, quite frankly, just plain scared of me these days and I must admit that I don't blame him. While chatting in bed last night, he made me 1) wet my pants because I was laughing so hard and 2) then proceeded to make me cry because I could not control my hysterical giggles at something that was not necessarily that funny but struck me as so at that given moment. I had spent the day as I usually do with a whirlwind of emotions (all the while hoping I am not doing long-term psychological damage on my children) that follow no predictable pattern other than you can guarantee that "Momzilla" will come out if the energy level is low. One moment I am crazy mom and the next I am June Cleaver...The moral of the story is that mommy is crazy, a little bit unstable, but mostly just tired. I have missed writing and am not sure if anyone is even still reading since I have been such a slacker; however, I did realize that while I love to get feedback from other people who have the same thoughts (or even different) as I do, I do write this primarily as an escape and to practice the craft I love so much. So please accept my sincere slacker blogger apologies and know that I have big dreams to be a little bit better...Once the fluid gets out of my ankles, of course...

The Way He Loves Me...

The month of April tends to make me nostalgic because Classic Old Spice and I went on our first date on April 4, 2002 and became engaged on April 16, 2004. Without ever realizing the connection in the past, I tend to really relish in my luck at what a catch I have caught in the spring as the flowers start to bud and the air lightens a bit. So I begin this latest entry with a bit of a disclaimer - it is going to be a mushy, heartfelt ode to the most amazing man I have ever met. If this tends to nauseate you, well, I have given you fair warning. I will write more tomorrow so be sure to check-in.
I met my darling dear about one year after the most emotional year of my life - I had just finalized the proceedings of a yearlong divorce that rocked my world, my father passed away very unexpectedly, and I had an emotional roller-coaster ride with a lot of debt my ex left with me on top of a guy I was dating who was not the most emotionally stable of the bunch (not that I was at this time either but still...) The first evening we spoke on the phone we talked for three hours - how do you talk to anyone you have never met for three whole hours!? He envisioned me as a brunette with dark eyes and my scratchy voice led him to believe I was a bit of a smoker (not so). We had a great time chatting and of course were eager to meet one another so we went out the next night to a charming Italian restaurant in an old Victorian house in the neighborhood we would eventually inhabit two years later. To say he charmed me would be putting it mildly - in fact, I was not sure he was really for real. For starters, the man is drop-dead gorgeous and melted me with his dark brown peepers and that dimple that is so notorious that I have written about it in the past. This will continue at least for one more generation because Bubba Boo is the spitting image of his daddy with both the eyes and dimple to prove it...When the time comes for Bubba Boo to knock an unsuspecting young lady on her feet, I will know EXACTLY how she feels and can simply bond with her over this heart-in-your-throat-but-still-must-remain-cool feeling. Unfortunately, he was also in the midst of a divorce which led me to believe that he might need some more time in the emotional recovery oven before we could actually have a healthy relationship. It did take some time and some bumps along the way but we made it through and were married in July 2004. Now, after six years and 2.5 children later, I find it difficult to put into words the realization one acquires when you suddenly learn that there is a human on this earth that actually knows you better than you know yourself. It is incredibly frightening as this person of course holds a lot of emotional power over you but alas, I thank God I took the risk because who else would pass over, without a word, the curled tortilla chips that I love so much out of the basket at El Rodeo? Who else simply chuckles when he looks for something under the couch and comes up with three, half-filled water bottles or finds one in the shower, or lodged in a toy bin in the play room (yes, I know this is not an ecologically-sound practice but I lose my water bottles throughout my days and let's just say I am working on it)? It is these human foibles and idosyncracies that make us who we are and make us real. Most of them are not revealed until you have lived with someone for a while as they are an essence of your character and while we can hide them while dating, it is a whole new ballgame when you live under the same roof. I will never reveal my husband's own quirky quirks in a forum such as this but let's just say he has his fair share as well. Though sometimes irritating, the man possesses an uncanny ability to know what is going through my mind before even I do and can anticipate my every move. While this might sound somewhat dull to live this way, I find it incredibly safe and comforting as I know he loves me for who I am right now - not yesterday or in the future, but who stands before him right now. He encourages me to grow and stretch beyond myself more than any other person I have ever encountered and has even sat next to me in a therapy session with tear-filled eyes as I have dished some painful episodes of a life well-lived but with plenty of ups and downs. He is the man I want my children to revere, he is the one I want beside me for the rest of time, and luckily, he is the man that still makes my heart skip a beat when he comes home at the end of the day. The fact that he has one of the best buttocks I have ever seen makes me feel even more blessed...
Now before you feel you are about to get sick, let me put out there that there are certainly days that I would like to scratch his eyes out and most definitely, he would like to do the same to me. We are intensely passionate people and can have a doozy of an argument that would scare even Donald Trump. I say this because in no way do we have a perfect marriage - no one does. But I am in it for the long-haul no matter what and, hoping that I am correct in saying this, I think he is right there with me. Happy Spring, Classic Old Spice. I love you more than I could ever let you know or write with words. You are my rock, my home, my true north.