Teddy Goes Potty

Tarnished Bronze

Today is my eight year anniversary. That doesn't seem like such a huge number until you consider the fact that (had Chris and I conceived immediately) we would have a third-grader right now.

Holy smokes.

Out of curiosity, I looked up anniversaries on the internet. I found a lovely chart telling you the traditional gifts for each year. Of course, there are the standards of silver (25) and gold (50)...but I had no idea that nearly EVERY year was covered.

So we're celebrating our Bronze Anniversary. Don't anyone go running out to buy us a statue now. I really don't have the space.

Out of curiosity I looked up the highest number...ninety years. Turns out that's the "Granite Anniversary."

Are you kidding me? You're married for nearly a century and all you get is the stuff they make counter-tops out of?? Granted, they're really nice counter-tops but still...

That's almost as insulting as the eighty year Oak Anniversary. I suppose if you were that old, the Oak might come in handy for a cane......................or a coffin.

But still, the whole system seems kinda wacky. I don't know a man out there that is romantically perfect enough to do right by every single anniversary...especially if they follow tradition and get paper (1 year), leather (3 years), or aluminum (10 years) for their wives.

Anniversaries are just another day for husband's to feel bad about themselves and women to rub it in.

So this year, I'm breaking tradition. Instead of making Chris feel bad for not whisking me off the the Bahamas (or even a cheap hotel in town), I'm going to share with you all why I love him so much. Because, truly, he is the unsung hero of this blog. I rarely mention him and, when I do, it's usually to poke fun at him.

So, in honor of this special day, I'll make a small effort to correct that.


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My husband is the best man on this planet. Sorry to say that, Ladies, but it's true.

Yeah, sure he's eye-candy. I won't deny that...but he also has substance.

It's like I've won the lottery.

If you've met Chris, you know that he is a funny, personable guy. He makes me laugh every day, sometimes when he's not even trying. He can be as goofy and playful as a twelve year old, when the mood strikes, and we've chased each other around the house (squealing like children) many times...which, by the way, doesn't help my bruised shins in the least.

Chris is my best friend.

The guy who's shoulder I can punch when a teasing comment is made. The man that tries really hard to read the novel I've scribbled on the inside of an anniversary card and look appropriately choked-up. He's the one person on this planet that I can play a game with and not become insanely competitive.

He's the guy that pretends not to care when I'm able to throw farther than him, shoot a paper target with more accuracy, and kick his butt in a college football video game that he spends much more time playing. Not only does he not care...I think he kinda digs it. He appreciates my Tomboy side just as much as he does my feminine side (such as it is). He loves me for everything that I am...and a few things that I'm not, but he gives me credit for anyway.

Chris is my partner.

I always knew I'd never marry a man that would throw me into the laundry room and lock the door...but I had no idea I'd find someone willing to take that job entirely onto himself. Chris and I are equals in every way. Two parts of a well-oiled, occasionally rickety machine. We both have our lazy moments (actually, he has moments...I have days) but I truly couldn't have hoped for a more willing and helpful husband.

Chris is the father of my children.

And he's everything a dad should be. He's kind....oh, how he's kind. He has the biggest heart, my husband. So full of compassion and love. His eyes are never more beautiful than when they're shining with tears. He loves our children with a ferocity that rivals my own (which is REALLY saying something, believe me).

And love is not just a word to Chris. It's an action. It's the thousand things he does to help me with the kids...even when he's exhausted. It's always making sure the family has clean underwear, a shiny floor to walk on, and a spotless table to eat on. And yeah, some of that is his O.C.D., but there's a lot of love there, too!!!

For Chris, love is never hesitating to play with his children...not even for a second...and taking time out of every day to do just that.

Chris loves the Lord.

He's the spiritual leader of our family and he takes that role seriously by demonstrating God's love to our children every day. He has an astounding amount of Bible knowledge (seriously, quiz him some time). But more than that, though, he holds that knowledge in his heart and applies it in his life and in our marriage.

Most importantly, He thirsts for Christ...and that makes me thirsty too.

What an honor it is to serve God with such a man at my side.

I love him with every ounce of me.

They say that you grow a new heart for every child that you have. If that's true, then I have a heart for Chris as well. He was my first love. The only man that has ever made my stomach queezy and my palms sweaty. And someday, I'll look at him and have those jittery feelings all over again. Of course, it will probably be a side effect of my arthritis medicine when we're in a nursing home...but it will still be special.

Right now, though, our love is comfortable. Like a soft, cozy blanket on a cold day. It's warm, it's familiar. And it's one of life's simplest pleasures.

Loving Chris is the easiest thing I've ever done.

He is the man of my dreams and I hope he knows that. He's everything that I want Luke to be and everything I hope Evie finds in a husband some day.

I look at Chris and I see my future. I see a love that miraculously continues to grow stronger every day. I see someone that was made just for me.

I see the other half of my compass.


Happy Anniversary, Baby.



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1-800-BABY-BOOT-CAMP

I stumbled upon a group of moms at the park near our house the other day. It was the closest thing to a "playgroup" that I've ever experienced...and, quite naturally, it was accidental.

I don't know what it is about a playgroup that turns me off so badly. I guess I just figure that the process of finding another mom that you genuinely like and admire is pretty difficult. Which makes the odds of actually enjoying the company of five women pretty astronomical, when you think about it.

Well, in spite of my misgivings, Luke had a great time playing with the other kids and Evie (thank goodness) simply enjoyed watching. I enjoyed socializing as well; but, since we had arrived pretty late, it wasn't long before some of the moms started packing up.

I spotted Luke standing next to a minivan full of children, looking for all the world like he was about to climb inside.

I called him over.

He didn't twitch.

I smiled politely at the other parents and cleared my throat.

"Luke!! Get over here...NOW!!!!"

He started running in the opposite direction.

In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, I spoke over my shoulder to the other moms...

"Do any of your kids actually come when you call them?"

They all laughed...which I took as a negative. Turns out my kid isn't the only one with selective hearing.

One of the women took pity on me and spoke up...

"I'm trying to teach my kids that delayed obedience is still disobedience."

The other moms all nodded in agreement.

I couldn't help thinking that delayed obedience would actually be a step up for my children.

Then another mom chimed in...

"We need to start an obedience boot camp!"

Immediately, I was bombarded with images from that dreadful Maury Povich show (and many others like it) in which trashy parents willingly display for all of America how disrespectful, abusive, and generally evil their children are.

In an exciting climax, Maury confronts the foul-mouthed little brats and tells them they're going to boot camp to learn how to be respectable human beings. Then some thick-necked drill sergeant comes onto the stage and starts screaming spittle into the kid's faces. Some of the kids yell back but most of them just look really, really bored.

As I'm writing this, I'm wondering what on earth would ever have prompted me to watch a show like this.

Oh yeah...bed rest.

When I was pregnant with Luke, I had some issues with pre-term labor and was put on strict bed rest. Twenty-four hours in a day and only twenty-three channels of cable.

You do the math.

Try as I might, though, I can't remember what happened to those kids next. Maybe the show ended there, with no follow up. Or maybe I just turned the channel in disgust.

If I were a betting woman, though, I'd say that those kids got home and were smacking their parents around within five minutes.

Which makes delayed obedience seem pretty darn good, really.

So go ahead and ignore me, Luke. Pretend like your little eardrums aren't vibrating from the exponentially increasing volume of my voice.

"C'mere, c'mere, COME...HEEERE!!"

But watch your back, Little Man.

I've got Maury's number....and I'm only slightly afraid of using it.



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Motherly Ruminations

Luke spent an afternoon with his Grandparents last week. I knew he would have a great time (and goodness knows, I appreciated the break) but I still felt a familiar ache when they left.

There's something that pulls a little in my heart whenever I see my child riding away from me in a car. It has nothing to do with trust, or even fear. It's just something so deeply fundamental within me that even I don't completely understand it. I feel like it's almost unnatural for my children to be away from me. And maybe it is, in many ways.

It reminds me of a poem by a man named John Donne that I was forced encouraged to read in high school. It was a love poem to his wife, I believe. In it, he compares two people who are in love with, of all things...a compass. Not a directional compass, mind you, but one of those drafting tools that help you draw a perfect circle and measure angles.

He said that when the two ends of the compass are pulled apart, they lean towards each other in longing. Never truly separated, but joined forever by design.

I remember thinking as a teenager what a silly analogy that was. How could a person look at one of those awkward, metal things and think of true love? Surely there's SOMETHING out there that would create a more pleasant image? A more flowery and romantic tone?

And then I became a parent....and I realized that the poem is perfect exactly the way it is.

I know what you're thinking. It's about romantic love, Steph...not motherly love. Well, I say it's about both (and it's my blog, so shut up). It's about true love. And what could be truer than the love that a parent has for their child?

Technically, it's about a couple that is being separated for some reason. Well, Chris and I aren't going anywhere, as far as I know. I'm going to spend the rest of my life driving that guy crazy and I couldn't be happier about it.

But my kids will leave me someday. Just as surely as the sun rises, they'll pack up a car and drive away one final time. And I'll be standing there, like the fixed end of a compass....watching them go.

But I like the idea that we'll always be connected. That there will be moments, however infrequent, when they'll miss me...almost as much as I miss them. That we share a connection that supersedes the physical world. And that, no matter how far they roam, we'll always be two halves of the same whole.

And now I'm being melodramatic, I know. The best I can hope for is to have my children and I end up as really good friends some day. Nothing mystical or supernatural...just friends with history.

But, for right now...right in this very moment...I'm more than that to Luke and Evie. I'm their protector, their teacher, and their biggest fan. I'm the one they get the angriest with and the one they love the most (sorry, Chris). I wipe their tears and their bottoms all day long. You just don't spend that kind of time with a person and not develop a special relationship.

But, most importantly, I'm their tether. And I'll always be that for my kids.

Oh, I'll give them room and let them sail. I promise, I will. But I'll always be there to anchor them when they need rest.

And sure, there might be some high fives between my husband and I when that last kid leaves the nest...but, right now, I have a very hard time imagining my life without them in it.

Every day, in every stinky way.



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P.B. (post blog)

I heard a lullaby once that reminded me of this very topic. I wanted to share the lyrics with you because it's so very meaningful to me. Enjoy...


BABY'S BOAT

Baby's boat, a silver moon
Sailing in the sky
Sailing o'er a sea of sleep
While the stars float by.
Sail, baby sail, out upon that sea.
Only don't forget to sail
Back again to me.

Baby's fishing for a dream,
Fishing near and far.
Her line, a silver moonbeam is,
Her bait, a silver star.
Sail, baby sail, out upon that sea.
Only don't forget to sail
Back again to me.


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Pity Me

They say that a near death experience will change a person. Make them examine their lives from a new perspective. Help them to realize what's truly important in this world.

If that's the case, then a nasty virus will do just the opposite. It'll make you shake your fist at the universe. Bury your face in a pillow and cry long into the night. Wonder what you ever did that was so awful, so unforgivable, that you would deserve a punishment like this.

At least, that was my reaction to it.

But then, I never have handled suffering too well.

Pain is one thing. A sprained ankle, a broken bone....childbirth...all things that I can abide with a certain amount of grace and composure. I might tremble a little and sweat like a pig, but (so help me) I will be dignified! And the best thing about pain is that you only have to put up with it long enough for the pain-killer to kick in.

But give me a fever and a sore throat and I'll show you a dramatized misery that will make you cringe in embarrassment.

You see, suffering doesn't have a quick fix. It isn't held to any deadlines and it certainly wouldn't care if it was. Suffering can take an average, (only slightly rumpled) woman and turn her into a bloated, feverish, and altogether unrecognizable lump of mucous-hacking misery.

And there's truly nothing worse than feeling like garbage and still having to care for other human beings. All you want to do is curl up in bed and try and forget you were ever born, but these small children keep tugging off your covers and making unreasonable demands for things like food and water.

Must I do everything?

I went to the doctor and she gave me antibiotics. That's all well and good, I told her, but what I was hoping for was some tranquilizers.....for the kids. She gave me a funny look and said she couldn't prescribe something like that for children. Then she asked me for my home address and a physical description of Luke and Evie. Naturally, I told her I lived in Guam with my African-American husband.

As I was driving home (and trying to ditch the unmarked car following me) it occurred to me that I really was on my own. I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to do with my kids when I'm sick? Nobody wants to babysit them...they're contaminated. Not to mention the den of filth and misery they would have to enter in order to actually retrieve the children. And the one person in the world that would have been willing to do it had spent an ill-advised day with us last week and was now suffering the same fate as I. (Sorry, Mom.)

So, I was left with no other option. I became the world's most rotten parent for a week and watched my kids from the living room couch. And don't think they didn't sniff out my weakness like a couple of blood hounds.

Actually, "circling vultures" might be a more accurate analogy.

Let's just say they learned lots of new tricks in the span of seven days.

For example, Luke learned that if he ran to the other side of the room when Evie started to cry, I couldn't actually pin anything on him by the time I got there. He also discovered an important loophole in the system...Mommy doesn't have the energy or the ability to discipline both kids at once.

Evie learned that the handle for the drawer beneath the oven is perfect for standing on to reach that elusive stove-top. She also remembered how easy it was to climb on top of the kitchen table and found that she could actually steal food off her brother's plate if she did it during lunch time.

And, in a critical scientific break though, she discovered that if she clenches onto an object tightly enough, her brother eventually stops trying to take it away....and her mother gives up even sooner.

Both kids found out that when Mommy is pasty and trembling, she responds well to temper-tantrums. She makes PB&J for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And she plays whatever DVD is screamed for the loudest....all day long.

But what the little darlings don't realize is that this, like all things, must eventually end. Oh yes, the hour of reckoning is coming, kiddos. So buckle up and brace yourselves...

Mama's startin' to feel better.



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