Thawing Out

If you've been following along on the FB OSMA page, you will already know the background story to this post. 

If not, the only important piece of information is to know Andy and I had a date night at a race track on Saturday.  We went to see Sprint cars race around like crazy go karts around a dirt track.  The sound was what a teenage boy would sound like if he were motorized:  thrilling buzz  with an occasional punch of fuel and hop around the corners not giving in to the rules of gravity or speed.

I was prepared for the loud.  We packed earplugs.

My hair was a sponge for the mix of fuel burnoff, Boardwalk fries, and Swisher Sweet cigars surrounding us in the bleachers.  It was a party like never I've been.  Like being welcomed to your boyfriend's hometown for the Homecoming game.  Everyone wore plaid and a curious smile.

What I didn't account for was the cold.  Once the moon peeped through clouds, it was so cold you could see puffs of smoke like conversation bubbles.  (Women's puffs a little steamier than the men's.)

I tried my hardest not to whine about being cold because everyone warned me.  "Bring a jacket."  "Pack an extra layer."  "Got your coat?"  My in-laws reminded me assuming my jeggings and boots probably weren't going to stave off frostbite.

They were right.  I couldn't feel my toes by 10pm.

I huddled literally under Andy's arm for the remainder of the race.  After maybe 7 false starts and "do-overs" I finally let myself drift off to that place you go when you listen but you don't feel.  I could only hear the comforting thump of Andy's heartbeat through his thigh, the whizzing of Sprint cars maxing out their speed, and the occasional "In field, you suck!" from regulars who get that.

By 1am, we packed it in and called it a night.  The race was continuing on without us but the freezing plank of bleacher we were parked on became an ice block and even Andy was shivering.

The next morning, we thawed out in the sun.

I tried to hide from my family (again, it's a thing) in the backyard but Abby found me and covered me with blankets, gave me pillows, and a stuffed ballerina.

I didn't even know a picnic table could be such refuge.

Here we are during The Thaw:
 

 Busted.  Mom has been awake the whole time.

 He was smiling because he could feel his face again.

 My two wingmen.

My favorite picture because Pop is leaning in to take pictures of Sadie instead of the freakshow that is his daughter-in-law camped out on a table in the backyard.  They're used to my shenanigans by now.  In fact, the whole family is.  At one point Abby came to plop a plate on my back and eat off my body like I wasn't even there.

I guess it was a pretty good hiding spot after all. 

This IS the Easy Part

I recently read an article (blog post) about how married couples naturally pull away from each other (hideout in bathroom) and then come back together (wine/tequila) in a natural ebb and flow that would, if given the proper machinery,  look like a woman having a contraction.

So, marriage would look a little like this:  --------^^^^^^^--------^^^^^^^----------^^^^^^^---------^^^^^^^^^^^(*sick kids, up all night for weeks, ne touch pas)^^^^^^^^^^^^^^----------------^^^^^^^, etc.


Interesting.  More issues once again, stemming from the mother.  When do we hardworking girls catch a break?

I digress.  After some thought I'd have to say I'm in a contraction marriage too.

Sometimes the contractions last much longer than a minute or two.  Sometimes those puppies go on for months.  Barking Bernese Mountain Dog puppies without an epidural.  Oh mama, the pain is hard to bare.

Then, eventually the dust settles, the children get their Cephalexin, and the crushing fog lifts. Contraction over, you're chewing on ice chips and looking each other in the eyes again.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"I've missed you."
"I've missed you too."
"Where have we been?"
"Busy.  We've been really effing busy."
"Let's snuggle tonight."
"Yes, let's."

To expedite the snuggling, I attempt to throw the children into their beds like boomerangs two or three times until they're finally down for good.

"Honey?"
 "Yes?"
 "Do you think this is ever going to get easier?"
"Babe.  This is the easy part."

 
  

 
"Sh*t. We'd better get some sleep."
"Goodnight.  I love you.
"Can you scoot over a little please, I love you too."

The Brady Bunch

My husband and I shared a bed last night.  Not in the biblical sense, this is a family blog and those are things of which we don't speak.

Andy has been sleeping on the couch downstairs for weeks now.

Remember when I was all, "I LOVE the new school hours, he's always HOME!" and so on?  Well, once again, I am dumb.

It's graduate school.  It's military graduate school.  It's an intense one year military graduate school.  It's like he has another family.  Hidden in the library.  Waiting for him in the conference room.  Bringing him coffee at Barnes & Noble.

Oh this new family isn't only getting the best of him.  They are also getting the most of him.  They even get him every weekend.  I bet the new wife is a really good cook and an excellent...accountant. 

I fought off the single parenting idea but it's part of sharing your man.  Before I accepted it, I spun my wheels in resentment, disillusionment, and the kind of tired that brings dreams of moving in with the retired couple next door. Who are in their 80s.  And recovering from knee surgery.  Probably not great candidates for floor puzzles and Hair Salon.

We do win him back for one thing, though.  Regardless of her penchant for cinnamon buns and pumpkin spice latte, they don't get him for dinner.  He sits down with us for at least 30 minutes to eat, hang out, wash a few dishes, and then balefully kiss us goodbye as he heads downstairs to be with them until 1 on the morning.  That hussy accountant and her silent offspring, I bet she even lets him watch Bill O'Reilly in bed with her.

Hmph.  I think I'll make him steak and potatoes for dinner tonight.  A little something to remember us by.

Wives' Club

We had a Spouse Meeting today at Andy's school.

It was more fun than I've had in a long time.

The nerd in me enjoyed sitting in an auditorium listening to authority figures give speeches.  Authority figures in Marine uniforms, might I add.   Hubba Hubba.

Then the lot of us perfumed creatures broke into smaller clusters of eight to visit our husband's conference rooms.  While chatting with the lovely girl to my left, I discovered we belonged in the same group!

She was the kind of sveltish lovely that made me suddenly hyper-aware that my jeans (held together with a brown belt that might actually be Andy's) were outdated and several deodorant chalk lines on my black shirt were still quite visible under fluorescent lights.

Although I was a far cry from her nautically cool skirt and purple tee, she forgave my style transgressions and we exchanged digits by the end of our conference room tour. 

Maybe it was the talk from Andy's instructor about bonding with families in the same C&S boat.
Or that I recognized the sleepless nights in a spouse's face although her hair was perfectly straightened and her bra not showing in the slightest.
It could have been because we listened to the intense syllabus and even more intense pressure our husbands will endure this year and we know we will be the ones texting each other about that blasted 10 page paper due Monday morning at 0700 that we stayed up till 2300 to proof read and edit (men and their comma splices).

Whatever the reason, it was fun to meet this particular group of wives.  We don't really belong to a Wives' Club but if we did?

We'd make our husbands very proud.

He Sees

 Circa Before Time's Ugly Maw Set In to My Face  2005

You know how you can't see the people you're around all the time?

Like when your spouse walks through the kitchen door with a brand new haircut but all you see is the tone of his hand gestures swiping at his forehead.  You skip right over the physical and straight through to mood.

It would be days before I noticed if Andy's eyebrow fell off.

(Okay so maybe not his eyebrow, look at those luscious creatures.  His ear perhaps?) 

Only happens with people you see every.single.blessed.day.  Like your significant other.  Like your kids.  Not like your super cute Starbucks drive-thru guy.  (There isn't one, I just like to mess with Andy because he thinks there might be.  I just really like lattes.)

Today I was on the receiving end of being ignored, then discovered, then "complimented" in a husband-y way.

Andy was on travel for a bit and returned today.  Like most couples we don't look into each other's face when we speak anymore.  That might've ended in '06 or was it '09?  So yes we are sink starers and mail flippers while exchanging status updates about the day's events.

"Good day?"  *dishsoap, dishsoap, clink, clank*

"Mmm-hmm.  Wha?  Ummm no....not really...crazy day...worked through lunch."
*bills, bills, Athletica catalog, police donation scam envelope*
 "I'm starving."

"Grayson's head has been hurting since morning, Abby's still got the yuk, Tillie ate a headband, dinner will be ready in a few, don't eat that, dinner is almost ready." *dishsoap, dishsoap, clink, clank*

"K.  His head still hurts?  Abby's headband?"
 *munch munch munch*
 Where are the kids?"

"Downstairs.  They're beat.  I'm broken.  Dinner in 30, stop eating Wheat Thins." *clink, clank*

That's how it usually goes and for all I know Adam Levine could've waltzed through the door with Andy's voice and I would be none the wiser.  And Kate Beckinsale could've been the one with dishpan hands.  We just never look anymore.

But then Andy took me by surprise.

He looked.

We were in the driveway, under the unforgiving natural light of le sun, and he took my face in his hands.  "What!"  I demanded like he accused me of eating Funyuns. He tilted my head down so my chin hit my chest.  "WHAT!" I freaked out because of course there had to be a tick or some kind of blood sucking bat bug nestled in my hair.

"I'm looking at your grays," deadpanned the man I married.

"You are looking at my grays." I repeat to my boobs.

"Wow, Honey.  You have a lot of them."




radio silence.




Would you like to leave the room and come back again to calm down, Dear Reader?  I know.  I'll give you a minute to collect yourself.  Lawd knows I needed one myself.

"It's cute!" declared the man I almost divorced in my driveway and just like that we were happily married once again.

Because now I know, he sees me.

He really sees me.

Spousonomics

There was a book sale at the the kids' preschool last year.  I restrained myself and only bought two.

One book is about 7 million pages long so was added to the leaning tower of unreads on my bedside table, the other one called Spousonomics, was relegated to the bathroom.

Being that it lived in the bathroom, it wasn't long before Andy found it and began to dogear.

Evidently it is a marriage resuscitator.

For me it is the Chris Angell of self help books:  I don't even see it but it's full of awesome tricks.

Since it showed up on the scene there have been random love texts from my husband (who did not even own a cell phone a year ago).  Granted, most texts are in acronym form that require mental gymnastics from me who is washclothing blackboard paint out of our daughter's hair or opening the garage door for the third time because I forgot Grayson's lunch box. 

"W. U gt gd sleep?"  says the text.

"Double U?  I got God sleep?" says my slow morning brain.  And so on.

But he is thinking of me at 7am and that is the point.

Then, just when I'm about to unleash my WHY MUST WE ALWAYS EAT THE DINNER fury on my children who still believe I am absolutely existing to "Watch this!  Look at me!  See what I can do with my finger!" whilst also scouring my Pinterest board for some kind of edible meal containing a box of rotini and thawed ground chicken, my husband calls.  Offering to pick up dinner.

I repeat.

Offering to pick up dinner.

It's like he can see us.

And then there's this other thing of magic happening.  According to Spousonomics it's called, Moral Hazard.

I learned about it the night I almost tore my spouse's arms off while he sat innocently scrolling through some car site online.

"Can you PALEASE go make their lunches or something?  I am so tired I could spit on you for sitting down.  I haven't sat down since last Tuesday.  I still have to take a shower, shave my legs, go make lunches, dry my hair, let the dogs out to pee, brush my teeth, floss, check the garage door, lock up...." Neeh-neeh-naneeh-neeh-neeh I nag off into the sunset with copious needs to be accomplished before setting foot near our comforter.

Instead of going on the defense, Andy whispers, "Moral Hazard."

"What?  What is that?"

"Moral Hazard, Honey.  It's in Spousonomics.  It's when there is a lack of consequence that drives negative behavior.  Like, for example an accidental moral hazard -  Me getting on the computer when you still want help."

"And...how is that an accident?"  I ask with every possible jaw muscle visible to the outside world.

"I didn't know I was making you mad because you never told me."

And there was the magic.  Immediately, I was a deflating balloon hissing from ceiling to floor. I never explained myself.  He could not read my mind after all. Every night was a personal assault for me while (on the other side of the male universe) he was just chilling at the computer by 8pm.

"Ok then," the fight in me gone, "Consider yourself told."

And he did.  Because of the language used in Spousonomics, my husband does not sit down until we can both sit down.  Or close to it.  It's only been a week but we have both tried to even out the night time responsibilities.  I still have my tedious rituals that can't be ignored because I refuse to go to bed icky..  Men can do that.  Men also don't seem to get cavities if they don't brush.  Forget about flossing.  Show me a man who flosses and I might just hide my wedding ring. 

I'm so grateful Andy found our bathroom book.

I'm also quite grateful it has graphs, industry terms, and very few shades of gray.

The best part is I'll never have to read it myself.



Okay, you're right, I should and probably will but I'm still totally not shaving my legs if he doesn't pack a lunch.

Graph that, Spousonomics.

Late Night OCD

I don't know when it happened.

Some time between 2008 and 2012 Andy's OCD seeped into my pores and now we share it.

Four days ago, I begged and pleaded for mentioned moving the play room from the main floor to downstairs, where the guest bedroom is located.  The noise and chaos from having the kids upstairs in my grill was becoming rusty nails down a chalkboard to my person.  Something needed to change and I was the last one to volunteer.  Thirty-seven years of stubborn doesn't blend well over time so I nominated our furniture instead.

 

Andy and I stayed up hiking twin beds, queen mattresses, box springs, headboards, footboards, side tables, couches, and more toys than I care to discuss down hallway after hallway and into new dwellings well into the night.

 

 (Grayson's bed turned Abby bed.  It's now donning a new princess sheet and comforter instead of that funky mattress bling.  That hurricane lamp was my grandmother's and it's one of my favorite things on earth.)

We were both driven like marathoners on mile 25.  It was going to happen or else we'd drop in a sweaty heap of granola bars and water bottles trying.

(Guest bedroom turned Grayson's bed.  This was my grandfather's headboard and footboard.  It sits up so high he almost needs a ladder to get in.  Abby thinks this is fantastic.  Grayson is in there, can you see him?)

Finally we managed to call it a night with a real deal play room in lieu of a guest bedroom. Unless of course, our guests are three feet tall with a penchant for canopies.

It's only been a few days but I can feel the wallpaper in my mind smooth instead of crinkle.  The carnal sound waves driving into our ear canals have softened and become muted hymns of children playing.

Downstairs.

On another floor altogether.

Way far away but Leave It to Beaver close enough to mix lemonade and eavesdrop at the same time.

It's how sanity must sound.

Sweet Reward, how I've missed it so.

I Take Thee

Today I celebrate the Hubs. It's not his birthday. His birthday was just a bit ago. Here are some pics of that particular celebration.
















The kids and I picked him up at his favorite local ice cream parlor/deli after he rode his bike there from work. An hour prior to retrieving him, we worked hard at putting together a small surprise party for him.

He was utterly exhausted from the long bike ride home but put on his best Daddy game face and played along with three expectant faces.



























(Can you believe I bought him a farm puzzle for 6+? Mommy is very tired.)














He was thrilled about the streamers. It's what every Marine really wants if you listen hard enough. Streamers and rainbow sprinkled frosted cookies too, obvs.



























The beef jerky and pop rocks were an impulse buy which did not disappoint.




















(There is video footage we'll adore for years to come of Abby discovering PopRocks for the first time.)

He really was a great sport. There was a toothpick candle, for heaven's sake and he never even flinched. (Again, Mommy is sooo tired.)

































So today, not on his birthday, I celebrate the Hubs because:

• he's just a really good guy
• we're dating again and it's the best thing ever
  
• he's super cute in his biking gear, all sweaty and glossy and smiley
  
• he takes on child duties without complaint so that I can escapse to have a few cocktails with old friends
• he still makes me laugh the ugly laugh
• he makes me cry with the things he writes in birthday cards

• he has learned to dismiss me two weeks before...well, two weeks "before"
• he has these freckles which I refer to as his "coffee stain" on his wrist that I find oddly sexy
• he eats the worst possible food that a person can eat at 10:30pm in bed, right next to me
• he tells me I'm on the "top tier of hot women" in the room no matter what room we're in
• he has fallen in love with our children all over again

• deployment has magically aided and abetted in the re-prioritizing of important stuff
  
• he has great hair
• he has an exciting adventurous spirit and willingness to pick up and go at a moment's notice
• he dearly covets anything remotely ice cream related
• he is reminding me more of my grandfather every day
• doesn't ask for receipts anymore because he knows I smooshed them in my purse, then probably used them as bubblegum hammocks.
• he fills the bird feeder and I never see him do it
• he smells of gasoline, dirt, and lime scented deoderant on the weekends
• he tells the kids to hush when I sing
• recently hung out with me and the kids while I bought an entire new wardrobe at REI
• gets grouchy when the kids infringe on our adult time, post 8:30pm
• can throw together a meal to rival Guy Fieri out of week old squash, 2 day old grilled chicken and somehow dijon mustard
• tells me I'm not an emotional disaster like Ashley on The Bachelorette
• that he knows who Ashley on Bachelorette is
• he shops for camping gear for the future me who will once again warm up to that idea
  

(There are many more reasons but I wouldn't want to give him too much leverage if he reads this.)

Oh we are just as dysfunctional at times as the next couple but lately we've plateau'ed in a happy place that makes me almost a little grateful that the children are only getting older and more independent. The future looks bright, big, and even a little romantic in a camping in the rain sort of way.

Love Notes

First thing I saw this morning:















I know.
He gets me.

He really gets me.

Dear Honey

There's so much my husband and I forget to say over Skype. Probably because it's either 11pm his time or past my pumpkin hour here when we see the orange alert pop-up on the screen. Because of this, he is now an official One-Sided reader so he can catch up on what's going on at the homestead. That in mind, figured I'd surprise him with a running list of things I will continue to forget unless I write them down. Here. On the mommy blog.

Surprise!


Dear Honey,

1. Abby has not forgotten you. I know you think she has. In fact, this evening she asked where you were, then told me "Daddy not here, Daddy miss Abbies. Daddy miss hold Abbies," at least five times. She means the reverse on the latter part but it doesn't matter because I'm guessing both are accurate.
   
2. Grayson desperately wants to please, even more than before you left. His little face dissolves into hurt and confusion if (yes, when ) I take a "tone" with him. I'm trying so hard to be the moon and the stars and the red balloon (but am so often the quiet old lady who is whispering hush.)
   
3. I am holding myself together nicely. The scotch tape is barely visible.
   
4. I am also holding myself to a higher standard with you gone. You know, not letting cranky win ever since I'm all they have for their day-to-day and how much would that suck for them if they were faced with that woman all the live long. Also? I want to win something really nice at the end of this. Like a lovely little metal purple heart number. I hear they go great with a pair of jeans and boots.
   
5. Snapper is living in our tupperware. Bleaching his tank just never makes my Top 10 list.
6. Our landlord invited us over for Thanksgiving. We were right, nicest guy ever.
   
7. I have balanced our checkbook only once since you left...a month ago.
   
8. I bought a new purse today. Smaller. I know, I'm purse bi-polar. Bottomless pit bag, then a zipper with vacancy only for lip balm. But this one's red with blue trim. To die.
9. Sadie no longer asks for dinner. It's so depressing. She just knows it's never going to happen so goes over to the cookie bin instead to wait for one of those to drop from the sky.
   
10. Holy Crap is this whole deal a complete exercise in Lamaze. Don't forget to breathe. Whistle if you have to. Sing loudly and often-ly but never ever say no to the epidural (white wine) when it's on the table.
11. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning. Then I pour more Hazelnut creamer in my coffee.
    
12. Abby let herself go to sleep tonight without clutching four plastic Strawberry Shortcakes and screaming, "Abby need Yellow Girwl! Abby need Shawtcake. Dey not hewe!!" even though they are clearly in her little tight fists.
13. Do we own a stapler?
    
14. I played a Christmas CD and bawled my eyes out while slicing lettuce and tomatoes (we had seven layer dip tonight for dinner and Grayson almost threw up) because there was a verse about how family is not an heirloom and I don't really know what that means other than you are there and we are here and our family has a big wide gaping hole in it so it made me feel sad while chopping vegetables. I came *this close* to losing a thumb.
    
15. I'm so thankful for you. Happy Early Thanksgiving, Honey. You're gonna miss all the HoneyBaked ham.

** addendum since 15 min. ago. Just balanced checkbook. We're good.