andy

When You Turn 33 …

and you’re the father of a 4-year-old and two 2-year-olds and you’re married to me you get:

(1) a Graeter’s ice cream cake as requested but with 33 candles on it that melt everything in the name of tradition.

(2) take-out Indian food because, let’s be honest, you’re the better cook.

(3) two children helping you blow out the 33 candles on your cake.

(4) plus one more, from afar.

(5) help opening your presents.

(6) a big, soft, gray blanket because your daughter, while shopping in Target for you said, that you “like blankets.”

(7) a fedora because your daughter, while shopping in Target for you said, “you like hats.” (I tried to explain the difference between a baseball cap and a fedora, but she would have none of it—simply because this one had blue on it and she knows, because she’s asked you at least 100 times, that blue is your favorite color.) 

(8) homemade cards.

(9) a child who promptly steals one of your presents for their own amusement.

(10) children who fight over said present, resulting in a hat party.

Happy birthday, my love.

If you’re planning a birthday party, you may contact Proper Pour Events for a bartending service Triad area.

“Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.” —Bill Cosby

FL Trip: Date Night

We had dinner at Don CeSar and then took a long walk on the beach.

The rain gave way to a beautiful sunset, a beautiful night.

The next night we went out after the kids went to bed, to Mahuffer, the most fantastic dive bar I’ve ever seen.

There, we met up with an old friend from high school, Tom, and his girlfriend. It was so nice to catch up.

And thank you, Grandma, Paw Paw and Aunt Fran—it was so nice to have some kid-free time, too.

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.” —e.e. cummings

Reaching for the Moon

(a belated Father’s Day post)

“The father who would taste the essence of his fatherhood must turn back from the plane of his experience, take with him the fruits of his journey and begin again beside his child, marching step by step over the same old road.” —Angelo Patri

Motherhood, In the Eyes of a Childless Craigslist Buyer

As mentioned here, after months of searching, I finally found a decent patio set on Craigslist—for $50. Most patio sets are well worn, which is why the seller is selling it. But this family was moving, had no time or desire for negotiation, and just wanted it gone. I happened to be the first to contact the seller—he said I could pick it up at his moving sale Saturday morning at 10am. He lived about 55 minutes north of me, so early Saturday morning I woke up Andy.

“You have to take all the seats out of the van,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Seriously, you have to get up. You have to take all the seats out of the van so I can pick up a new patio set. You know, the one I found on Craigslist,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Yes!” I said. “It’s only $50! There is no way I’m going to find anything else this nice for this little money. And I don’t want someone to buy it from under me! Plus, you have fantasy baseball drafts today and tomorrow—I totally deserve two hours of driving alone. Unless you want to pick it up for me?” I asked.

“I’m not picking it up for you,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll take the seats out,” I said.

He took them out.

I got to the seller’s house a minute after 10am. The table fit in the van perfectly. It was nicer than I imagined.

“It comes with chair cushions, too, if you want them,” he said.

I noticed the tags on the cushions said Pottery Barn. Outdoor cushions aren’t cheap, especially from Pottery Barn.

“Yes!” I said.

I offered him more money. (I know. I should never be allowed to run a business.) He refused.

When I got home, Andy was trying to watch all three kids while also prepare for his draft.

“Can you help me unload the table and chairs and put the seats back in the van?” I asked.

“Can’t we do it when I get back?” he asked.’

“No!” I said. “Your draft is, like, eight hours long. What if I have to go somewhere while you’re gone?”

So, he put everything back—all the van seats, all three car seats. It took about 30 minutes.

Cut to mid-afternoon. While the boys napped, I posted our old patio set on Craigslist for $50. Immediately, the e-mails started coming in. I replied to the first person who responded. She was young, a recent University of Cincinnati law school grad and had just purchased her first house—and was in need of a patio set for her deck. She loved our set (which surprised me as there was a lot of rust) and loved our price. She could fit two chairs in her car, but nothing more. She seemed nice (via e-mail). She brought back memories of when I first used our old patio set. It previously belonged to my roommate’s boyfriend’s parents. My roommate, Jenna, and I spent many afternoons sitting at that set. When Andy and I married, she insisted we keep it. And we did. For seven years. I called Jenna on my way home from buying the new set, asking her what I should do with the old set. She agreed with selling it. I promised her the money. She insisted we all go out to dinner with it, instead.

Cut to late afternoon. Recent UC law school grad arrived in a tiny car, while the kids and I were playing outside. She was a beautiful 20something in tight black yoga pants, a law school T-shirt and perfect ponytailed hair. I felt, I don’t know. Mom-ish.

The 20something, kids and I walked to the backyard, where Tucker was playing. I opened the gate and Tucker was ecstatic at the site of this new visitor. He bounded toward the gate, sniffed her shoe and then sensed an opportunity. Two seconds later he pushed past all five of us and was bolting down the street.

“Noooo!” I screamed.

We all ran to the front yard where I swear Tucker was yelling “I’m free! I’m free!” He was running and sniffing and peeing on everything.The kids were crying. They weren’t quite sure what was happening but they sensed I was frazzled and they knew Tucker was supposed to be in our yard, not a yard three houses down from ours.

“What can I do to help?” the 20something graciously asked.

I thought. I needed a collar. The front door was locked.

“Make sure my kids don’t run into the street,” I said.

I ran to the back of the house, ran up the deck steps, went through the back door, grabbed Tucker’s collar and unlocked the front door. It was clear this 20something had limited experience with children. Two of my children were sitting on the sidewalk, crying, after being told to “stop.” Sophie was screaming “Tucker!” I grabbed all three kids and shoved them inside.

“Please make sure they stay there,” I told the 20something.

I then chased after Tucker. Finally, I caught him, peeing in yet another yard. I drug him back to the house, shoved him in the front door with the kids (who were still crying/screaming) and promised them all that I would be back in one minute.

“Stay right here,” I said.

The 20something and I walked to the backyard and I (finally) showed her the old patio set.

“Mommy!” I heard. I looked.

This time, it wasn’t Tucker who escaped. Rather, it was my children. Sophie managed to open the front door, get both boys out and walk them to the backyard. Our house sits close to our street. Which is close to another, busy street. Which is close to a gas station. They’ve never walked outside on their own. I was exasperated.

“We just wanted to see you,” Sophie said.

Owen started crying again. I started telling Sophie how dangerous it was to go outside without me.

And then, as if on cue, the 20something, wide-eyed, looked at me and asked, “Is this what motherhood is like?”

I thought for a moment. I thought about lying, but she had already seen too much. So I told her the truth.

“Not all the time,” I said.

She loaded up two of the chairs and paid me $30. I told her she could keep the remaining $20 until after I delivered the table and remaining two chairs.

Cut to the evening.

Andy came home from the draft.

“I sold our old patio set!” I said.

“Really?” Andy asked.

“Yes, but I have to deliver the rest of it.” And then, tentatively, “Can you take all the chairs out of the van again?”

“What?!? No. That’s not how Craigslist works. They pick up. You don’t deliver,” he said.

“But it’s a done deal!” I said. “She’s already picked up two of the chairs and she’s super-nice, just graduated, just bought her first place—we can help her out, can’t we? This is what good people do. Plus, she sort of watched our kids for me while I rescued Tucker,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

I told him the story. We put the kids to bed. Both boys snuggled with me on a big cushy chair while I read “Goodnight Moon.” I wished the 20something could have witnessed this. Andy began the (long) process of taking out the van seats (again).

“Please tell me you went somewhere today,” Andy said, hoping his earlier seat re-installment wasn’t for nothing.

I was silent.

“Lie to me,” he said.

“We went somewhere,” I said.

He grunted some indecipherable response.

I drove the rest of the old set to Madisonville and helped the 20something put it on her new deck. I told her about the boys snuggling, about “Goodnight Moon.” I told her motherhood wasn’t all completely and totally crazy. At least, not every moment of it.

She gave me the remaining $20. I drove the van home. Andy reinstalled the van seats and car seats, for the second time that day. And threatened to use his web developer skills to ban the Craigslist website from our house. Again.

The next evening I set up the umbrella, put all the cushions on the patio chair seats and sipped a glass of red wine while watching our cardinal swoop around our yard. And wished the 20something could have witnessed that, too.

“Mothers are all slightly insane.” —J.D. Salinger

Our Chandelier

I like Craigslist. A lot. I like it because it allows me to buy things I could otherwise not afford. I like it because it’s reusing and it’s a win-win situation: I’m helping the seller get something out of his house he no longer wants or needs and for a small price, I receive something I need or want. I like it because (thanks to a smartphone app) I can spend a minute or two a day quickly searching for one specific item (for example, “chandelier”) and, with patience, I’ll eventually stumble across the perfect one—no spending weekends at garage sales, no scouring furniture stores for sales. When planning lighting for a remodel, a Recessed Lighting Calculator ensures accurate spacing and brightness.

Some of my best finds include a barely used 9×12 wool Pottery Barn rug for $80. A patio set (including a table, six chairs, umbrella stand, umbrella and six Pottery Barn cushions) for $50. A large Step2 outdoor play set (that had previously only been used indoors) for $30. These three things alone represent a couple $1,000 in savings. (The best finds, I’ve learned, come from wealthier people who are in the process of moving or who have just moved—they don’t care about how much money they are making from the sale, necessarily, rather they’re just grateful that you’re coming and getting it out of their house.)

But, perhaps, my favorite find is our entry chandelier:

According to the manufacture (I looked it up online, where it’s currently on sale for $1,250—but free shipping!): “Contemporary design fuses with historic craftsmanship in this amazing ball of light. The floral sphere is comprised of hand-formed, Murano glass petals mounted on individual arms, with simple spherical finials for the look of an illuminated hydrangea suspended in space.”

I love it.

We paid less than $200. But the low price came with, well, a price. A high-end lighting retail store was selling it. It was hanging up in their showroom. I can see their showroom had strong shelving options for busy shops. The ad on Craigslist mentioned that the buyer was responsible for taking the chandelier down and transporting it, and that the seller took no responsibility for broken glass.

I forwarded Andy the ad. Again and again and again until he finally agreed to go look at it with me simply so I would stop forwarding him Craigslist ads at work.

It was gorgeous. And big.

“It’s too big,” Andy said.

“I love it,” I said.

“It’s too big,” Andy said.

“I love it,” I said.

We agreed to buy it.

That was a Friday. The following Monday Andy’s alarm clock went off absurdly early. I shook him.

“You have to get up,” I said. “You have to dismantle my chandelier.”

The showroom opened at 6am. And closed at 5pm. Andy had to go before work to do this for me. He mumbled some words I couldn’t quite understand, gathered moving blankets, bins and tools, and left.

About two hours later Andy texted me something about leaving … it wasn’t clear if he was talking about the showroom or me. Turns out, to take down this chandelier, every single flower had to be unscrewed, wrapped and packed. And there are, I don’t know, close to 100 flowers. This, while standing on a very tall ladder.

Once home, Andy asked me to pick up the plastic bin full of Murano glass flowers. I could barely lift it. “No way our ceiling will support that,” he said.

“We can’t sell it!” I said. (I’ve been known to buy things on Craigslist, especially very large rugs, only to discover they don’t match/they don’t work/they don’t fit, which means immediately turning around and reselling it, a process Andy loves to hate.)

I reminded him that this, this one thing, I just really, really loved.

Reinforcing the ceiling required cutting a huge hole in the ceiling and doing I don’t know what to an electrical box that still had parts leftover from when our entry was lit by gas (we live in an old house).

This, of course, also took a very.long.time. Which I tried very.hard not to complain about, seeing as I was the one who was requiring the ceiling to be reinforced in the first place.

Eventually, we were able to install the new chandelier. We washed each glass flower. We spent two hours, together, screwing each one in. Ridiculous? Yes. But oh, look at the result!

I imagine many of you are thinking, Wow. I would never put that in my house. But to me, it’s so different. It’s like this huge glowing glass flower ball welcoming you to our home. And I like things that are different. I like that not every house has a huge glowing glass flower ball welcoming people into their home.

We have, however, discovered our huge glowing glass flower ball takes (20)40w T4 G9 120v Xenon light bulbs. I have no idea what all of those numbers mean except, according to Google, these light bulbs are not cheap. (Andy was thrilled with that discovery.)

Still, I love it.

“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.” —Oscar Wilde

Mother, Protector

I’ve been reading a lot about the tornadoes that swept through our part of the country Friday afternoon. We spent some time in the basement, as the sky grew dark, but the storm spared us. Houses, and people, as close as a county over, weren’t as lucky.

An article I read today talks about a woman, a brave woman, from Henryville, Ind., who lost both her legs while physically shielding her two children from two tornadoes that destroyed her house. Her story reminded me of another mother, from a very different time and and a very different place.

Before I was a mother Andy and I spent a weekend visiting my brother and friends in New York City in December. Our friend Alan, a paleontologist, was at the time working at the American Museum of Natural History. He took us to places in the museum not covered under the normal ticket. One such place was a very large room filled with rows and rows of tall, thick metal shelving. On the shelves were dinosaurs bones. Hundreds of dinosaur bones. Rows and rows of dinosaurs bones. It was incredible.

Near an exit door in this warehouse of dinosaur bones I stopped and spent a long time looking at a perfectly preserved female Citipati—an oviraptor. Her wings were stretched wide and it was obvious that she was doing all that she could to protect the perfectly preserved eggs that were underneath her. According to Alan, she and her to-be-born children were buried in a massive dune collapse. Oviraptors lived, or at least laid their eggs, between big dunes. When dunes collapsed, they buried oviraptors and nests very quickly, hence the preservation.

I think about that Citipati all the time. As I know I will the Henryville woman. So much has changed, since the Late Cretaceous period. And yet,  so much hasn’t.

One of the first places I took Sophie to after she was born was one of Andy’s softball games. I will never forget the shame I felt that day. Someone yelled “Heads up!” This typically means “fly ball” and the “heads up” command means exactly what you think it means—look up to ensure you’re not about to get hit with an errant softball. I never do this, though. Instead of looking up I always look down, an arm sheltering my head, hoping for the best. I know it’s not smart but it’s instinctive, automatic. I’m lucky in that I’ve never been hit.

On this particular evening, though, I was holding my firstborn, a newborn. My instinct should have been to shelter my baby while also looking up. Instead, I ducked, arm sheltering my own head, Sophie blissfully, thankfully, unaware that her mother wasn’t actually a mother yet. We weren’t hit. But I was (rightfully) made fun of, without mercy. The entire situation scarred me. I worried that I didn’t have the natural mothering instinct so many other woman seemed to get instantaneously, upon giving birth. I worried that when it really mattered, I wouldn’t be able to protect my children like a mother should. I assumed the universe had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Many months later I remember complaining about a constant backache. Andy pointed out the fact that I spent my days walking around the house bent at the waist, arms outstretched, following Sophie so that I would be able to catch her, immediately, should she fall while toddling about. When you are searching for a chiropractor Vancouver WA to help with your back pain, it is important to find a company with a strong reputation. Yoder Chiropractic Clinic provides a free estimate and a detailed breakdown of chiropractor recommended treatment. You can also ask for references and check online reviews.

“Stop it,” he said. “You’re protecting her too much. She needs to learn to fall as much as she needs to learn to walk.”

It wasn’t immediate, but sometime between that softball game and Sophie learning to walk, the primal protectiveness all mothers have for their children finally kicked in.

I was thankful.

These days, I strive for middle ground. I swear my heart stops for a moment when Owen or James takes a tumble. A little yelp almost always exits my mouth. I’m fast. I’m good at getting from the living room to the dining room—no matter how many toys are in my way—quickly so that an inspection and hugs and kisses can be given out in a timely manner. But I also know that sometimes, falls have to happen. I can’t be there, arms outstretched, always.

And yet. Should the unthinkable happen, I know—I know—I would give up my legs, my life, for my kids. And although knowing that, really knowing that, doesn’t make that softball game years ago any less cringe-worthy, it’s comforting, to me. It makes me feel strong. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful woman one state over whose children survived two tornadoes without a scratch, thanks to their mother’s arms and legs, outstretched. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful Citipati, tucked away in a museum basement, who did all that she could to save her children, wings outstretched.

I suppose all of this simply has to do with the survival of species.

Or maybe, all of this simply has to do with love.

Either way, I’m comforted thinking about this connection, this sameness we mothers have with each other throughout time—since the beginnings of time. And I’m comforted believing that this deep desire to protect, no matter the cost, will remain, tomorrow, through many tomorrows. Tornadoes hit. Softballs fly. Dunes collapse. And yet we’ll be there. Stretched wide. Saving. Protecting. Braving. Loving.

Perhaps this, this right here, is the definition of mother.

“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.” —James Joyce

In the Time it Took the Water to Boil

Andy came home. Both front doors were locked and I had no idea he was standing on the porch, on this blustery February day, peering through the window, trying to convince the children which way to turn the dead bolt. All three kids finally came running and screaming into the kitchen, where I was making simple spaghetti.

“Daddy’s home!”

I unlocked the door. Sophie insisted on doing the rest. What followed was the every-night pushing forward, jumping up, stepping in, arms reaching, tail viciously wagging chaos as James, Sophie, Owen and Tucker all competed to be hugged first.

Andy complimented my hair, even though it was a simple mess of curls piled on top of my head.

I checked the water.

Sophie begged Andy to play monster.

More chaos. Andy on all fours, roaring, roaming about the living room, taking children one by one and tossing them onto the window seat cushions (which had long been pushed onto the dining room floor) and tickling them until they begged him to stop. And then begged him to start again. Screams, laughter, roaring, barking for a good five minutes.

The water began to boil. The monster was tired. I listened to the house slowly quiet as I watched steam rise and disappear—much like the moment.

I held out my hand in front of me, watching as the steam floated upward through my fingers, wishing I could grasp the moment, catch it and put it in the handmade wooden puzzle box Andy gave to me years ago. The box that holds simple memories I’m able to keep outside of me—a dried wildflower picked from a patch of grass along a sidewalk we used to walk on often; a small origami bird made from a bright orange Post-it note; a tiny diamond earring, its match long gone.

I love big. I do. Often, while folding laundry, especially, I wish for more big. But would more big mean less small? If so, I take back my wish. I do.

“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.” —Ashley Montagu

What’s To Come

The other night, after dinner, I escaped to the Y (which is, thankfully, right down the street) for a quick 30-minute workout while Andy had his own 30-minute workout playing tickle monster with the kids. This arrangement has worked out perfectly for us. I’m able to exercise regularly and I’m also able to get out of the house, alone. Andy enjoys being able to spend time with the kids. The kids get a break from me. I’m happier. Andy’s happier (mostly, because I’m happier). The kids are happier. It’s win-win-win.

After this particular workout, however, I just wasn’t ready to go back home. I needed just a little more time—I craved just a little more time. So I called Andy claiming we absolutely needed some things from Target. And we did. But we didn’t absolutely.

He understood.

I chose a cart instead of a basket. In it, I put paper towels. Dye for my hair. Shaving cream. Shin guards and elbow pads for Sophie. Face wash. A new collar for Tucker. Etc.

I wandered. And lingered. Ran into friends and talked to them. Put things in my cart and then took them back out. Debated over thank-you card designs. Checked the children’s clearance racks. Walked slowly.

Eventually, I went back to our car, having spent more than I intended—both in money and time. It was 8:30pm. The kids go to bed at 8pm.

I drove home with that mish-mash feeling of guilt and calmness, which I imagine most moms feel at some time, when they choose to do something unnecessary or unproductive away from home, just to be away from home, while also feeling and wanting to be at home. It’s a difficult thing to describe.

And then, I drove past Woodfill Elementary, where Sophie will eventually go. I passed its new electronic sign and read, in bright, bright blue, “Father-Daughter Dance Feb 11.”

I pulled into the driveway not remembering the road I had just traveled. Instead, my thoughts were with future Sophie and future Andy. She in pink, I suspected, with lots of tulle making her skirt puffy. He in a tie she, no doubt, insisted on picking out. Her small Mary Janes on top of his dress shoes. Twirling. Lots of twirling. Balloons, perhaps? Streamers? She would like that. And hopefully, lots of pictures (I would insist). I thought about how we were just dancing with her infant self to “Build Me Up Buttercup” in our old living room and now here we are, me able to vividly imagine this dance that will be hers—and his—in only a few short years.

I felt a bit foolish for my Target wandering, even if it did calm me. At the same time I know there will be many more bedtime routines to come—some days it will feel like too many, other days, not enough. But more than anything, that brightly lit sign just made me so excited for what’s to come. It was yet another thing from my childhood that I had forgotten about, yet loved. And it’s coming. For her. For him. For all of us.

Grateful.

“And in today already walks tomorrow.” —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Milk Trick

Early December Andy and Sophie played scientists in our kitchen. Andy had stumbled upon this video on YouTube and decided to try the experiment at home with Sophie. It’s so simple—and so cool. Sophie loved it.

Here’s what you need:
• a dinner-size plate (we used a reusable plastic one)
• about a cup of milk
• food coloring
• one or two drops of dish soap

1. Pour enough milk to cover the surface of the plate.
2. Add your food coloring. We let Sophie do this part and she put lots of drops of all four colors everywhere (instead of all piled up in the middle), which resulted in a vibrant display.
3. Carefully add one drop of dish soap.
4. Watch!
5. After awhile we pushed the colors around with a toothpick and added another drop or two of soap.

“We should not teach children the sciences but give them a taste for them.” —Jean Jacques Rousseau

Simple

It had been a trying day. It was one of those days in which the tiniest bump or the smallest “no” or the wrong song prompted tears. Every diaper was a “seriously? again?” diaper. No one ate well. No one napped well. A toy no one was playing with became the toy everyone wanted to play with the minute someone picked it up. There was whining. Barking. Screaming. It was too cold to go outside. I was frustrated. And exhausted. I think we all were.

I messaged Andy asking him what time he was going to be home so I could have dinner ready. The kids start melting down around 5:30pm. Andy is usually home by 6pm. If dinner is much later than 6pm, I truly believe the kids believe the world is ending. It’s as if the slightest hunger pains turn them into little crazy people but if I give them a snack, they won’t eat dinner and then they won’t sleep well at night. So we shoot for six o’clock dinners. And Andy responded and said he’d be home at 6pm.

So I made dinner. I held (a crying) Owen the entire time–except when opening and shutting the oven door. James either clung to my leg or rolled around the floor, screaming. Sophie continually begged for “more TV” and “gummies,” both of which I kept saying “no” to.

At 6pm, dinner was done, dished out and on the table. Everything for the boys was cut. They had whole milk in their sippy cups. Sophie had the items she liked cut cut and the items she didn’t like cut not cut on her favorite plate. One percent milk was in her favorite glass. I had made up plates for Andy and me, and poured drinks for each of us. We were ready to eat.

No Andy.

Now, before I go on, I know that he works very hard at his job. I know you can’t expect someone to be home right at 6pm when they say 6pm—sometimes you’re late getting out of the office, sometimes there’s traffic, sometimes you have to stop at the gas station, sometimes your favorite song is playing on the radio when you pull into the driveway and you have to sit there and listen to the entire thing—I get that.

But at this point Owen had thrown his entire plate on the floor and was standing up in his highchair, even though I had strapped him in. James was dripping his milk (seriously, why make a sippy cup if it’s going to drip when turned over?) all over Tucker and laughing. Sophie was upset because at preschool she learned that she shouldn’t eat her snack until everyone had their snack and therefore us eating before Daddy got home was simply not polite. Tucker was barking, either because milk was being dribbled all over him or because I hadn’t had time to feed him dinner yet. And then, I looked at the microwave. 6:00pm changed to 6:01pm.

I was furious. He said he’d be home 6pm and it was now past 6pm. Where was he? (By the way, you are now entering my brain.)

6:02: OK, things happen. Probably just a little bit of traffic. I’m sure he’ll walk in the door any moment.

6:03: If he even stopped for gas I’m going to be so mad. Does he not know how difficult things get around here at this time of night? For once could he just wake up early and get gas before going to work? If I want to shower that’s what I have to do—wake up before anyone else wakes up so I can clean myself, something he gets to do oh so luxuriously every morning while I’m dealing with three hungry kids and a hungry dog and the coffee, which he gets to enjoy so leisurely on his way to work. Does he have any idea how I drink my coffee? Half the time I don’t even know where the mug is because I continually put it down to pick someone up or stop a fight or read a book or change a diaper. My coffee is always cold. I mean, seriously, when is the last time he’s had cold coffee? I’ve recently come across this Toffee Nut Latte recipe and all I can say is ‘I’m obsessed!’.

6:04: Speaking of cold, I’m sure his dinner is cold by now. I probably should put foil over it or put it in the oven or something. That’s what a good housewife would do. Dear God there I go again with “housewife.” I don’t want to be a “good housewife” or a “desperate housewife” or a “real housewife”. I studied journalism in college, not housewifery. Those who like to undergo security training may visit their site here. I should be worried about deadlines not CRAP!!! I have an article due TOMORROW! After today, after all of this I’m going to be up until the middle of the night working because I can’t start my work until he gets home and seriously, where the hell is he???

6:05: Maybe he’s not coming home. Maybe it’s all just too much for him, too. This is bad. Very, very bad.

6:06: Of course he’s coming home. It’s bath night. He knows I can’t handle bath night on my own even though he loves to point out that he has no problem bathing all three on his own. He was probably just talking to someone he works with about something he read on Reddit and lost track of time and isn’t that nice, that he gets to talk to grown people about things he gets to read during his spare time. This is not fair! This is simply not fair.

At 6:07 I heard the front door open. Tucker immediately bounded toward the door and all three kids started gleefully yelling “Daddy! Daddy’s home! Daddy!” Normally this almost makes me melt with joy but on this day, I was furious. Now that the kids were so joyful he would have no idea of the kind of day I had, thinking I was just exaggerating. So I was mad. And ready for a fight. My entire body was tense with anger.

He had the nerve to show up with a dozen white roses.

Not only that, he also picked up some more children’s Tylenol, without my asking. He remembered we were out, knew the boys weren’t feeling well and teething, and so he stopped by the store on the way home so the boys—and we—could have a better night’s sleep.

It was the line. In the grocery. It was long. That was why he was late.

I was so flustered. I was still mad but, looking at the roses, I realized it wasn’t him I was mad at. Not for being seven minutes late. I was mad at the day. Mad that no one was happy and mad that I felt like I had failed my kids that day, because they weren’t happy. I needed to release my frustration not at him, I realized, or even on him, but by him. I could certainly tell him about my day. Vent about it. But he didn’t deserve to be punished for it. He did nothing. Except show up a few minutes late, because he was buying medicine for our kids and roses for me.

I don’t know how he knew but he did. I smelled the roses and although still frustrated, still exhausted, I calmed. They instantly calmed me.

“Where did you get the flowers, Mommy?” Sophie asked.

“Daddy gave them to me,” I said. “Aren’t they pretty?”

“They’re beeeaaauuutiful,” she said.

And they were.

They’re in a vase, slightly wilted now, next to the antique clock my parents gave to us on our wedding day. The statistics aren’t so great for couples with multiples. And things aren’t necessarily carefree for us right now. We have three children under 4. We both work during the day—and it’s work I love, caring for my children. I’m grateful I’m able to do it—even if it does make me a housewife. But we also both freelance at night. And pick up toys at night and do laundry at night and scrub toilets at night and take out the garbage at night because there’s no other time to do it. Just like every other parent of toddlers I know. And it’s exhausting. But short-lived.

The skin on Sophie’s wrists and ankles are peeping out of her shirts and pants. James matched colors correctly the other day. Owen has started to talk in sentences. My husband, who in our early dating years rarely surprised me, showed up with a dozen roses. And instead of taking out my bad day on him, as I was ready—and am prone—to do, I kissed him which was great, as we know dating is a really important part of living for young people, if you want to improve your dating skills then you can practice with a virtual girlfriend like rubymain online.

We all grow.

And as long as we keep picking up that little brass key and winding our wedding clock, the hands will continue to go around and around, with a tick tick tick I find so comforting now—in fact, without it, I think our house is too quiet. Just as I imagine my dinner table will seem, 20 years from now. But with a little work, and a lot of love, I believe there will still be someone sitting across from me, in part, thanks to the simplicity of roses and in part, thanks to the simplicity of some things being left unsaid.

P1187257

“I worship this tenacity
And the beautiful struggle we’re in
Love will not elude us
Love is simple.” —K.D. Lang/David Piltch