Dirty Little Secret

Dear Lovebug,

You have become such a little boy in the last few months. I think back to the first time something you said surprised me (you weren’t two yet and we were playing a “guess the animal” game with Ironflower and suddenly you popped up with the correct answer, even though you were hardly talking yet) and I realize how much you’ve grown up. Every day you say something that surprises me!

I love that you are so independent, that you enjoying playing by yourself and doing things for yourself and yet you still need lots of hugs. The other day I watched you playing rough and tumble games with your friends, constantly expecting you to get upset. But you didn’t. You were having fun, just like a big kid.

You are brave, Lovebug. I know a lot things worry you and new situations cause you anxiety. And I’m so glad that you’re opening up and telling us about it, which is brave. But not only do you do that, you’re starting to do things anyway, even if they do make you nervous. That’s makes me so proud.

Your interest in trains has grown to include cars, trucks and airplanes. You build complicated track systems and roads so well. What has really developed this year is your passion for Legos. I can’t wait to see what you’ll build every day. Even if it is during breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.

You are such an amazing brother. You look out for your baby brother and share with him more than anyone could expect. And you stood up to the boys from Ironflower’s class who chased her and her friends, even though they were bigger than you are. You miss Ironflower a lot when she has her long day at school.

You, Lovebug, are a really cool kid. And I am so lucky to be your mom.

I love you,

Mommy

Darling ChunkyMonkey,

Today you are 1. The nurses christened you ChunkyMonkey when you were born, with your 9 pounds of cuteness and great skill in nursing. You are not really chunky, but solid and definitely a good eater. The monkey part, however, is apt. You remind me of Curious George.

You love to know what’s inside of everything and you want to touch it all yourself. You are the only child of mine to take an interest in the water in the toilet and to try to eat dirt. If there’s an open door, you want to go through it. If there’s something new to see, you want to see it up close.

And how your face lights up when something makes you happy. It’s worth it to let you crawl in the dirt to see you smile. You have the most amazing smile, kiddo. You are learning about language; right now you can give 5, wave and gesture up and down on command. Your favorite speech sound is “Da”, but it’s many inflections can indicate your father (Dada), what’s this (Da Da?) or anything else you are trying to tell us. When you’re unhappy, you moan (Daaaa,Daaaa,Daaaa) and then progress to full on screaming.

You are very sure of your wants and preferences, even if I don’t always understand them. You love fruit and fruit juice, pretzels and french fries. You love to try new foods, but you’ll yell if you want something that isn’t offered. You are wonderful at playing by yourself, but more than anything you want to do what Lovebug is doing. You have just recently begun to enjoy books, and you favorites are the “Touch and Feel” series.

You are my surprise baby in so many ways, little one. And I look forward to all the rest of the surprises you have in store for me as you grow. I love you more and more each day,

Mommy

PS If you could stop biting and pulling hair, I’d appreciate it. And maybe get over the tantrums. Just a thought. XOXO

I don’t think my family is good at fun.

Last night was the “Family Fun” night at the kids’ preschool. Hot Guy had to work, so I decided that ChunkyMonkey should stay at home with my mom, 2 kids being enough for one tired woman to keep track of at a gathering filled with sugar and small children.

Of course Ironflower was drawn to the painting activity like moth to flame. . .which meant that I spent a lot of the evening cleaning blue paint off of her costume.

And Lovebug hated the noise. He ran into classmates, but they were all shy with each other (as opposed to how they’d been at the hay ride the day before) and overwhelmed by the crowd. So he pretty much wanted to leave from the moment we got there.

I spent most of my night dragging Lovebug around in search of Ironflower. Until the reptile show. Which my kids had enjoyed at a small play date last year, but this year it freaked Lovebug out. And Ironflower claimed not to like it, but I think what she didn’t like was the large number of kids between her and the animals. Meanwhile I stood with some other preschool moms, having nothing to say while I fretted over my children’s unhappiness.

Somehow I’m reminded of some of  last events I attended in school gyms – junior high dances. Before every dance, I’d have this image in my head of how it would go – the boy I liked would ask me to dance, I’d look impossibly cool while dancing, my friends would all tell me how great I looked – and it NEVER went that way.

These family events seem to go the same way for me. Before we go, I have this image in my head of the fun we’re going to have – the kids will laugh and smile, I will chat amiably with acquaintances, the kids will behave – and it never works that way. Lovebug hates something about the event and clings, they both grab food and drink like mannerless heathens, I have brief conversations that I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to and at the end,  Ironflower says it wasn’t good enough anyway.

I guess I’m just not destined to live up to the images in my head. Maybe I should stop trying.

Recently I’ve heard people say things like, “Don’t tell my husband that I just want to see that movie because Hugh Jackman’s in it,” and “My wife thinks I just agree to see chick flicks because of her, she doesn’t know about my crush on Rachel McAdams.”

And I shake my head.

Hot Guy and I don’t have secret crushes, we have permission lists.

Like, if I ever get a chance to be naked with Hugh Jackman, I have permission to go for it. Likewise Jon Stewart (okay, mostly I just want him to talk to me, but I’ll be naked if that’s what it’ll take for him to talk to me.). And if I get to do Ben Affleck or Matt Damon, Hot Guy will be really happy for me, as long as I tell him the details. Really.

He has my permission for Drew Barrymore and Sandra Bullock, plus some others I can’t remember. But not Christina Ricci. He thinks she’s on his list, but she’s not. I think she’s weird. She seems like she’d go all stalker or something.

Anyway, I suppose my point is that Hot Guy and I discuss our crushes openly. Possibly even eagerly. And even though I’m the chubbiest I’ve ever been and am pushing 40, I am never threatened by his crushes. Why would I be? The vows talk about forsaking all others, not forsaking all sexual fantasies.

When I was in high school, there was this boy I really, really liked. Surprisingly, we actually started dating. All was fine until he was in a play with this girl that he had a crush on. No, he didn’t dump me. In fact, he was a perfectly attentive boyfriend. It was just that I could tell that he had a crush on this girl, not that she was interested. But it bothered me so much that I dumped him.

I spent the next year and a half regretting it. 18 months of wasting being a cute little thing because I was hung up on a guy who was never going to trust me again. Genius, I tell you. Though  it sure got me over being jealous about somebody’s crushes.

But I’m starting to wonder if Hot Guy and I are in the minority. Do you hide your crushes from your spouse? Or do you have a list?

I got my haircut yesterday. Thanks to my great fear of pregnancy/post-partum hormones and hair decisions arising from them(at least I learned from the dye job that made me look like a goth after I had Ironflower), I have not had a haircut since July. Except for the bangs I cut myself in September (hormones + stress = I’m convinced I can fix my own hair problems). Anyway, my hair had gotten quite long. Hot Guy LOVES long hair – and doesn’t notice things like split ends or style when the hair is long – so I felt slightly bad chopping it off. But only slightly.

Besides, I didn’t chop it ALL off. Just about four inches (my hair grows really fast). So now it’s shoulder length and layered to encourage the wave and all that. I actually kind of like it now. But I was a little worried about what Hot Guy would think, since he’s such a big fan of long hair.

When I got home, he said it looked good. But as we talked (and I confessed to buying product too) I realized that he looked slightly . . .guilty. Shifty. Not happy. I started questioning him. Finally he admitted, “You’ll be mad if I tell you what I really think.”

I was kinda surprised. After all, it wasn’t like it was truly short. But since I was sure it was cute I knew I could handle his opinion, no matter how bad it was. I told him to tell me the truth.

“I can’t tell the difference, ” he said fearfully. He then went on to explain that since I wear it back so much and since it always “looks nice” when I wear it down. . . well, it just didn’t look any different to him.

“But I cut off FOUR INCHES!” I exclaimed. He nodded and looked at me as though expecting a blow. I wasn’t mad, though – I was just relieved that he didn’t want me to grow it out again. Okay, and a little shocked at his lack of observational powers.

The shock and relief may have turned to a little bit of frustration when he went on to explain that he doesn’t really notice whether I’m wearing make-up or not. “WHAT?” I said, possibly quite loudly. I’m very pale. My skin is uneven. I have straight eyelashes. I look A LOT better when I put on make-up. The difference is palpable. The comments from other people on how rested or not rested I look correlate WAY more to how much make-up I have on than to how much actually sleep I have gotten.

Hot Guy, possibly feeling more confident because I wasn’t acting mad, went on to explain that I always looked fine – and the same – to him. Though he did make sure to point out that I did look especially nice when we got dressed up.

I’m not sure what to do with this information. Although it’s caused me to realize – as I put on concealer and blush this morning – that I definitely don’t do these things for my husband’s benefit. (Since he doesn’t EVEN NOTICE) It’s so empowering to know that I style my hair and do my make-up for me. . .isn’t it?

It’s Father’s Day and I feel like I should write something meaningful and profound about Hot Guy and my dad. But as we all know, I’m kinda in a blogging lull these days. So instead, I’ll have others speak for me.

A song for Hot Guy, which has nothing to do with fatherhood and everything to do with why he’s the father of my children (oh, and he has a crush on Bernadette Peters):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKEP48sLvdk&hl=en]

A movie excerpt for my dad:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GojJXpu6pv4&hl=en]

Today is Hubby’s (aka Hot Guy’s) birthday. As one of his birthday presents, I’m going to stop referring to him as Hubby on my blogs and start calling him Hot Guy. If you want an explanation, read about how he became Hot Guy , how he became my boyfriend and how he became Hubby.

Darling Hot Guy,

Happy birthday, honey! I love you so much. I have gone over this post in my head so many times, but now that I’m writing it I don’t know where to start. How to list all the things I love about you? How to explain how glad I am that you left that rose on  my car? How to thank you for all the things you do and/or don’t complain about around the house?

You are so many things I am not – outgoing, able to sing and draw and fix things, good at visualizing things, able to grasp technical things quickly, able to sword-fight,   a great networker, an amazing actor, a wonderful cook, a natural photographer, able to sew, able to understand German, an expert on the Civil War  . . . . .you are great at so many things. Though none of those talents compare to how you are as a father. I love watching and listening to you with our kids. You are so creative and fun with them, they are so lucky to have you as a father.

I love how you accept me exactly the way I am. I love your sense of humor and your curiosity about the world. I love that you like to shop. I love how smart you are, especially about stuff that doesn’t make sense to me. I love how easy it is to get you to stop snoring. I love how you worry about all the car and household maintenance stuff. I love that you like to explore new places. I love that you like so many kinds of music (even though you don’t appreciate Abba) I love that you usually drive.  I love your hugs (and a few other things I’ll tell you about later ). I love that you are, at heart, a total geek – with  a great veneer of coolness.

I wish I could give you more for your birthday. If I could, I would give you every Star Wars Lego missing from your collection. I would give you  (okay, us) a trip to Ireland. I would give you a trip to Kansas City to party with all of your friends. I would give you a fancy haircut at that mansalon at the mall.

Have a wonderful birthday,

I love you,

Me

Anglophile Football Fanatic’s been doing a walk down memory lane on her blog, so I thought I would copy her idea rather than write another post about my houseguests. (Although I will note that Hubby has absolved me of all responsibility for them, so if they would just stop asking to borrow my car or giggling as they looked under my couch pillows – I mean, all people with kids have crayons in their couches, right? – all would be well. Or, uh, not that bad. ) Anyway, AFF’s post is all cute and romantic. Naturally mine is not. At least not in any traditional way.

When Hubby and I first began dating, we were in denial. Neither one of us wanted a serious relationship and we were definitely not looking to fall in love. When someone would refer to him as my boyfriend, I would loudly protest that we were JUST DATING and that he was NOT my boyfriend.

In fact, I was relieved when he would be unable to attend my friend Mimi’s wedding with me. I was a bridesmaid, knew 3/4 of the guest list and was looking forward to dancing with her young, hot co-workers. Hubby was attending a huge paintball tournament in Oklahoma that weekend. I went to the wedding and had a fantastic time.

In fact, I had such a fantastic time that when my friend Todd dropped his champagne glass, I quickly hopped up to find a server to clean it up. But after having had so much fantastic champagne myself, I forgot that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. (I’d taken off my killer heels) I sliced my foot open on a piece of glass. But because I was having such a good time, I just wrapped it in a towel and kept dancing.

I noticed that it was still bleeding when I went home that night, but I just wrapped it in gauze and passed out went to sleep.

When I woke up with a killer headache the next morning, I noticed that it was still bleeding. And that I had trailed blood up my carpeted stairs. I decided to hit the ER. They cleaned out all the glass and stitched my foot up – while they were laughing at me. The doctor tried to lecture me about cut care, but he was laughing too hard.

Anyway, I went home and set myself up on the porch. I got myself a diet pepsi, a new ashtray (yeah, yeah, I know), a pile of books and propped my foot up. I couldn’t face cleaning the trail of blood through my house. Hubby came over that night, after a long day of paintball and driving.

He got me food. He scrubbed the blood out of my carpet. He re-bandaged my foot.

And I stopped protesting when people called him my boyfriend.

My mother grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. Her family didn’t have much money, but my mother made it to Penn State anyway (her straight A’s probably helped). She majored in journalism and wrote for the Daily Collegian. Since this was the early ’60’s, most college educated women became teachers or nurses. When my mom walked into her first professional newsroom, she was the only woman not getting coffee.

My mom dealt with being young, female and hot (she still looks so good) in a profession dominated by older men in the coolest way possible – she taught herself to drink martinis and swear like a sailor. And she became the first woman general news editor at a respected news organization. She met my dad because she was his boss (this was the mid-’60’s).

Eventually she married my dad, helped him found the company they work at to this day and had me. She worked and was still “The Picture Lady” at my school (she came in and taught us about great works of art). To this day she supports me in too many ways to count and STILL brags about my ballet performances. The only time she has ever lied was to tell me about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And as soon as I got old enough to question them, she told me the truth. When I loudly asked what a douche was as we were surrounded by businessmen on a crowded airplane, she did her best to answer me. She reads ALL of my blogs.

My mother will tell you that she’s pushing seventy. She will tell you that after she gets home from the gym, cleans the house, works in her garden and makes a fantastic dinner (with candlelight!) or goes to ballet class, goes to work and makes a fabulous dinner. She will tell you that after she outruns my children. She will tell you that after she has a couple of martinis. She will tell you that while she hauls a huge sack of peat to her garden. She will tell you that as she puts on high heels made in Italy and an above the knee skirt and you realize that her legs are better than yours.

Have a wonderful birthday, Mom.

I could write a long, heartfelt post about Hubby today. I could. Because Hubby, aka “Hot Guy” from Soap Opera Sunday, is pretty fantastic. But we don’t really do Valentine’s Day. So then I thought, if not love, how about lust?

Here are some men I lust after (besides Hot Guy, of course):

Ben Affleck. I don’t care that he can’t act. He can direct, anyway. And look at that face.

Taylor Kitsch. He’s on Friday Night Lights. Watch the damn show already, people.

Ewan MacGregor. And an accent too.

Jason Bateman. I’ve had a crush on him since he was on Silver Spoons.

Brett Favre. What? Like I’d lust after Eli Manning?

Larry Mullen. The drummer for U2. Giving me daydreams since 1984.

And here are some men whose brains I like so much I have crushes on them too:

Kevin Smith – director of Clerks, Chasing Amy and Dogma. And also a fan of Degrassi Junior High.

Jon Stewart. Funny and smart – my two favorite qualities.

I’m sure you disagree my choices. So leave yours in the comments. Or write your own post and leave me the link!