For Dear Hubby

Fourteen years ago today, I became a 'Mrs'.  I'd like to say that had been my lifelong dream and that Dear Hubby completes me, but that's not entirely accurate.  Actually, blogging is about as close as I've come to what I originally had in mind for my life's path and, without a boss to tell me no and, occasionally an internal filter, it's quite a blast!  Besides, I was a person before and am still one today, although I seem to have gone from Me to Wife to Mom.

It took him six months to ask me out, a bit of quirkiness I still find endearingly charming, however, I quickly discovered this was his approach to dang near everything.  Sometimes, if he waits around long enough, I'll make the decision, which he will tell you, frees him from all blame should the schmidt hit the fan.

His boss once complimented him on what a sweet wife he has in me.  His response?  She's only nice to strangers.  What a guy, but to be completely fair, sometimes I'm not nice to them, either!

Dear Hubby's idea of romance is to ask 'Did you shave your legs?'  Charming.  If I grow it like the hippie-chick out at the commune, will you give me a pass?

I frequently grouse that a complaint filed with the Better Business Bureau is in order, because what he advertised sure as shootin' is not what I got.  I mean, the entire time we dated (4 years, 10 months), he was The Perfect Gentleman.  After the 'I-dos', he was an altogether different specimen.  Three weeks post-honeymoon and I started thinking when the heck are you going home, dude.  I must say, he's been cured of leaving the toilet seat up, if only because he got tired of my nagging (his words, not mine...it's not nagging if it's instructive in nature).

I'd like to wax rhapsodic about Dear Hubby, but sarcasm not poetry, if my forte.  I tell him, lovingly mind you, on occasion that he ruined my best-laid plans.  I'm supposed to be living it up among the chic, thin, fabulously fabulous people; where, I'm not sure; doing what, I've no clue.  He smirks and does that doofy giggle/chuckle thing like Woody from Toy Story, you know, when Bo Peep tells him she got someone to watch the sheep.  Oh, just watch the movie already!

Thanks to him, I've learned any number of interesting tidbits, life lessons and assorted crapola no one else, but me, would care about:

1. If he's out of town, every single stinking TV channel will be running a John Wayne, Chuck Norris, Bruce  Lee or Jean-Claude VanDamme marathon

2. The mere brush of my jeans-clad posterior against his fully restored 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner, can and will, elicit horrified shrieks the likes of which you will typically hear from doomed cheerleader-types in bad slasher movies

3. A well-placed elbow is an all-natural, hormone-free, no animals were harmed in the making of this product, cure-all for snoring (I think this is my favorite)

4. I'm really quite fond of his Jim Carrey/Ace Ventura 'DO. NOT. GO. IN. THERE!' rendition as he exits the bathroom.  What can I say, I find toilet humor...humorous!

I once read that a good marriage is where each half of the couple thinks they got more than they asked for and better than they deserve.  Some days, I'm not sure what the poor man thinks he got handed.  Me?  I got gold.

Happy Anniversary, Babe!

Mom's Memorial Day 'Vacation'

Friday:

1) Brave the grocery store again because I forgot road-trip snack essentials--a full mouth IS a quiet mouth.   Marvel that 'essential' to a young male equals beer and lots of it as evidenced by the young muscled fellow wheeling out two carts laden with 24-pack boxes of Bud.

2) Wash, dry and (maybe) fold two loads of laundry.

3) Take muscle relaxer and pain pill for sore neck that's turned me into Cruella diVille.  Promptly go to sleep..in the bathtub.

Saturday:

1) Wake up late, in bed, at 7:30.  Yell at Hubby to moveitmoveitmoveit! because the alarm didn't go off and part of our roadtrip deal was for me to get a quick trip by the quilt shop.  What's that?  Do I feel like going?  Let me put it to you this way:  if I don't go, you go alone..with two children; none of this stayin' at home crap, you got me mister?  Do you want to spend THREE DAYS at home with these people?  Just let me pop more pills and everything will be hunky-dory!

2) Spend three hours answering assorted ridiculous questions, including the following:
    'What's that tractor for?'
    'Are we there yet?'...after 15 minutes
    'What does (  ) spell?'
    'Are we there yet?'
    'Um, Mooooommmm, did you know he rolled his eyes at you?'
    'Are we there yet?'
    'Why do cars hit skunks?'
    'Are we there yet?'
I KNEW I'd forgotten something....Benadryl!

3) Get one hour, solo, at Creations in Kerrville where I fondle fabric, peruse the books, pet the shop cat and drop some dollars.

4) Initiate Dear Daughter (D.D.) into 'The Roadside Cop-a-Squat Club'.  Man thinks a successful roadside pitstop means doodling artwork in the dirt--Picasso's got nothin' on them, ya'll.  For woman, it means nothing gets wet but the ground and not flashing your naughties to passing motorists.  I give her a 3 out of 10 and will consider us lucky if we don't wind up on YouTube.

5) Attempt to fill two hours with fun sh*t for me and D.D. to do in 100+ degree heat, dodging the beautiful (and not so beautiful) people on the crowded sidewalks of Fredericksburg while Hubby and Dear Son (D.S.) tour the Nimitz Museum in air-conditioned comfort.

6) Home at last!  Throw kibble at dog; balance a checkbook.  Kids settle in to watch River Monsters and, for once, are quiet.  Launder two more loads of clothes..leave them in dryer to wrinkle overnight.  Fall asleep.

Sunday:

1) NASCAR...need I say more?

2) It's 12:45 and Hubby's taking the kiddos to his company picnic.  I must have 'That Look' on my face 'cause he didn't ask me to go.  Who says men aren't psychic?  Margaritas are ready for consumption...hey, it's 5 o'clock somewhere and I don't EVEN want to think about Monday!

Restaurants, Revenge and How Mom Will (One Day) Get Her Groove Back

One recent evening, Hubby and I were seated in a local restaurant with a lovely view of the parking lot, anxiously awaiting the Rapture and our order, while our offspring slouched on the bench across from us, alternating between a staring contest worthy of Celebrity Death Match and cozying up like Al Capone and his gang. 

I can clearly recall a time when dining out was pure joy.  The anticipation alone...have mercy!  Me, all dolled up, perfume, tight jeans (size 10) and enough cleavage to keep his attention without straying into full-on slut territory.  Hubby, sporting Levi's (dayum, but he could fill 'em out ya'll), boots and, if the weather was chilly, a flannel shirt.  Can you say 'cheap date'?  No rush, no worries, no stress.  The only pressing issue was where we'd go park after dinner.  You know, to watch the stars.

Fast forward a couple of years and WHAMMO we did it.  Well, to be honest, we'd done it plenty before but this time, nine months later, here comes Seth.

Now, dining out with a baby isn't really a big thing, considering that babies do only three things: eat, sleep and poop.  In any case, you're prepared for anything no matter your location because in addition to baby, you also lug around King Kong's handbag stuffed with diapers, wipes, several days worth of clothing (in case of leaks, spit ups or, heck, just because), diaper rash ointment---Dr. Beaudreaux Butt-Paste (for us BAD MOTHERS that don't change baby often enough or because baby is a sensitive soul), bottles of formula (for us LAZY MOMS who don't cotton to having Junior's gums chomp on our girls or simply because Junior's head is half the size of aforementioned girl and for him it's either breathe or eat), assorted baby toys and a flask of wine (oops, wishful thinking).  That's a lot of crap to haul, ya'll but still, we made do.  At this stage, we could still have a peaceful outing because, face facts, babies don't talk (or talk back).

Restaurant dining these days is a mix of verbal martial-arts (smack, jab, KAPOW!); church service (Please, Lord, don't let me lose it in public 'cause I SO would not look good in a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit and road-side trash pickup is not my idea of a good time); and twelve step program (Hi, my name is Bat-shit Crazy Momma and it's been 3.5 seconds since my last "Don't make me take you to the restroom 'cause you are so gonna get it, sister" speech).  All in all, an experience not anywhere near as relaxing as, say, a glass of wine and a Xanax.

I'm already plotting my revenge, glass of wine in hand.  Each jewel, nugget and crumb of child-dispensed wisdom as it relates to all things kid and kid-raising is being carefully documented and filed away for that perfect Golden Years moment when I can unload them like bullets from an Uzi.  'Why, yes, baby, go ahead and let the doggy lick your mouth.  That smell?  Oh, it's just a little litter box snack.  Bless his heart, he gets awful hungry this time of day.  What's that, Princess?  Of course, your Mama won't mind if you have a venti, double-caff, caramel mochachino.  You know she wouldn't want to deny you anything, Hunnybuns!'

I am so gettin' the warm fuzzies just thinking about it...or maybe it's the wine.
 

Love is Spelled Q-U-I-L-T

My Mother made this paper-pieced quilt for Seth as one of her very first quilting adventures when he was about three or four years old.  It's a well-travelled quilt, having gone far and wide by car and by plane.  It's seen all sorts of folks: relatives, friends, doctors, nurses; and even several different states.  Oh, the places it's gone! 

This is one tired quilt!  Mom's patched, mended and embroidered all over it in an effort to repair it as best as she can.  But time, and lots of little boy love, have taken their toll.

He's a middle-schooler now, but the quilt stays in its place of honor on the bed along with about a half dozen of his other quilts.  When he's sick, this is his go-to comfort quilt.

The prairie-point border is disintegrating from so many trips through the washing machine and the backing fabric is paper-thin.

The photo above signaled the end to this sweet little quilt's journey.  When I told him there was no way it could be fixed again, that we'd have to retire it, he wanted to know how long it would take me to make him another.  From the same pattern.  Using the same fabric.  Hey, no pressure here!  Luckily, my Mom still has the pattern and I spent today hunting reasonably similar fabrics, hoping that close enough will be good enough. 

How many of us can say we've been loved to pieces by a child?

Happy quilting!

Mama's Girl

My daughter's at that age where actually being seen in public with dear old Mom isn't horribly embarrassing and holding my hand won't leave her scarred for life.  She will, at the tender age of six, still claim me as her Mom and not some stranger who's stalking her. 

Friday, the first grade classes hosted a Mother's Day Tea where they serenaded all us camera-toting mommies with a little song about all the things Moms do (no way a kid came up with this, because let's face it, kids think the laundry cleans itself).  This was followed up with cupcakes they'd decorated and juice cups of raspberry iced tea.  All the while, I'm trying to balance my posterior largesse on a chair designed for one of Snow White's seven friends. 

My sweetie P made me a swell yarn-wrapped flower vase, a wrist corsage and a nifty Mother's Day card.  Here are a couple of the card's highlights:

What ingredients is your mom made of?     Skin and bones (bless her heart, I think this means skinny)
What do you love most about your mom?  She lets me take a bath (ooookaayyy)

If you ask her, she'll tell you she's my stars.  If you don't believe her, she'll point to the tattoo!  

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!   



No Thanks, I Don't Do Spandex

Growing up, my all-time favorite superhero was none other than...Wonder Woman.  She had it all:  the jet plane, the gold lasso, that awesome headband and could that woman ever rock a bathing suit!  Lynda Carter had it goin' on and I so wanted to be her.  Then came the Dukes of Hazzard.  Goodbye Wonder Woman, hello Daisy Duke.  Why, oh why, did my childhood supers have to wear short-shorts?  Ah, but I could dream!

These days, I'm just regular 'ol working Mom.  No spandex (yes, God IS in control), no jet, no short-shorts, no cape.  My days aren't spent fighting evil (unless you count those Legos that seemingly breed overnight and lay in wait for my unslippered feet...they make such sweet music when sucked up with a vacuum) and justice for me comes in the form of pestering my children while they're in the bathroom (are you done yet, are you done yet?)  What can I say, I'm easily amused. 

This afternoon, I was presented with one of those rare moments when I get to earn a star in my Mom Tiara and, in the eyes of my child, ascend the ladder to Superhero-dom.

Poor Woody, he didn't stand a chance against that six-year old foot that came down on top of him and unceremoniously decapitated him.  There stood Paige looking down at her beloved toy, shrieking like the gibbons at the zoo and all I could think was 'who died?'.  

Yep, he was a goner if someone didn't do something pronto.  Where's Wonder Woman when I needed her?  And then, it came to me.  I, Regular 'Ol Working Mom, could fix this.  Never fear my dear, help is here!

And just like that, I achieved superhero status!  I ask you:  Who needs a cape...

...when you've got a glue gun?