Heath & Angel

For a short time, a very short time, I was known as the second half to Heath and Angel. We dated for two weeks when I knew I was in love with him (kept that part to myself) and when he gave me a card a few weeks later that said he loved me, I asked him to marry me. No sense burning daylight, as my grandma would say. We married a few months after that and by the time the anniversary of that impromptu marriage proposal had rolled around, our firstborn had joined us. From that point on, we were simply Mom and Dad.

A little over a week ago, our second child (of three) left the proverbial nest to live on his own. We talked about how we had went from just the two of us to a family of three, then four, then five; and how it now seems we are living life in reverse... from five to four to three. Our youngest plans to stay with us through college, but we are both aware of how quickly those college years will fly.

Soon it will be back down to two.

I know we don't have as many kids as some or lack in what others would consider a remarkable story, but then again, I consider our story quite remarkable. When I was twenty-two, I fell head-over-heels in love with a fella who made me laugh. A few days ago, he still had me laughing on my forty-sixth birthday. We'll always be Mom and Dad in our little corner of the world, but it kinda feels like we're getting back to Heath and Angel and that, as corny as it may sound, makes me grin from ear to ear. Might as well enjoy it before we get to the "grand" part of the names.

I love these seasons of life.

Well-Timed Moments

So when your kids ask about your blog, you listen.

Your ears perk up. You blush with feigned humility. You feel special.

I mean, come on... if the kids think I must write, well then-
It is for the children, after all.



Yeah. I'll shut up already, but seriously, two out of three really did ask. With that in mind, we'll make this a test run and see if either one of them have any questions, comments, or otherwise. It should make a good story anyway.

We live in a house of somewhere around twelve hundred square feet. With one kid out of his teenage years (I need to update that blurb on my bio) and the other two kids well into the teenage life, it mostly feels like we are five adults sharing a sometimes very crowded space. Throw into the mix only one television (and antenna tv at that), and there are only so many places to hide when you would rather not face the world. So, when one is having a difficulty of sorts, we all know about it and we all share the pain. Last night when the pain for one became all too evident, a pow wow ensued with grievances aired, pep talks offered, and affirmations given. In the end, three kids celebrated their God-given sibling bond with a late night trip to the meeting place of all meeting places, Walmart.

And I have yet to figure out the allure of that.

At any rate, I found myself in my usual spot on the couch, book in hand, and settled in for the evening. The husband succumbed to the pull of online video gaming/you tube searching/mindless jump surfing and tuned out the world. The tv was off. The house quiet.

And Vince Gill began to sing.

I looked up from the glow of my nook book to see the husband looking at me. Granted, I had to put on my glasses to be certain he was looking my way, but when the blurriness adjusted to 20/20 vision, he had indeed pulled the jack on the headphones and motioned me to the dance floor, otherwise known as the living room floor rug.

While the kids walked the aisles of Walmart, the parents danced to bona fide country music. At one point I looked at my worn, pink fuzzy socks and chuckled at the sight we must have been to the cats who looked lazily on from their vantage point by the fire.

Now, twenty-four hours later, I sit in the same spot on the couch, the same worn, pink fuzzy socks on my feet, and the television on for a change. Before me is the husband, his back to me, an virtual mafia/swat team contest in the heat of battle capturing his attention. The Dick Van Dyke show has taken over what was a Wonder Woman movie and from time to time a kid wanders through the living room.

And all I'm thinking is,

Shouldn't you people be at Walmart?

Did Somebody Say Lucky Charms?

I am in the mood to eat.
Cereal. Brownies. Pizza. Chips. Crackers. Hot Pockets.
Unfortunately, I am not the least bit hungry, so therefore... I wait.

I wait for bed. I wait for the morning. I wait to be hungry again.

If I had chocolate syrup, I would stir up a glass of chocolate milk. If it were not almost nine o'clock in the evening, I would brew up a cup of coffee. If the elastic in my pants would give just a little bit more, I would eat anyway.

I mentioned the above thought to the husband earlier and he just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. He has lost quite a bit of weight these past few months and is more than pleased with himself. I confess that I have more than once pondered the prospect of secretly feeding him weight-gain powder with his nightly supper.

Not that I'm jealous or anything.

I just want to eat.

Larry Tate Is A Jerk

As I sit in my usual spot on the couch watching yet another black-and-white episode of Bewitched, I can't help but notice for the umteempth time what a pig that Larry is... an old, gray-haired man in a suit checking out every female form in a skirt that strolls by his office door. In tonight's plot, he thinks Darrin (Darren?) is fooling around on Sam and slaps him jealously on the back. That a boy, he says. You son of a gun, he gushes.

oink, oink, oink.

Next up is I Dream of Jeannie. Nothing like a little feel-good manipulation to get a man to do whatever you want (sarcasm alert!). I will say this, though... I have always been jealous of the cushy digs Jeanie has in that bottle. Granted, she can also get trapped in those digs with a simple plug of a cork. There's always a trade-off to the peace and quiet a woman craves. I suppose a man feels the same way.


(lapse of time due to a cookie break)


I heard my phone ringing and as I pulled myself off the couch, I grumbled under my breath about who would be calling me after eight-thirty on a Friday night. I mean... sheesh. Some of us enjoy the comfort of a mundane evening, at least most of the time. The name popping up on my phone was that of the husband. I never even noticed he left.

What are you doing? he asked.

Talking to you, I said trying hard to keep the duh! out of my voice.

He told me to come out to the backyard (which explained why I never heard him leave). When I hesitated- I mean, I was awfully comfortable on that couch, he sweetened the deal: I've got a fire going and your chair by mine. That kind of offer is hard for even a bum like me to resist.

So we sat together watching the flames of our first bonfire of the new year.

Peaceful. Quiet. No Jeannie's bottle necessary.

And no pig-of-a-man Larry Tate in sight.

Happy It Stinks To Be Single Day!

At least that's what I've heard it called this week by no less than four women, two men, and one rather sarcastic cartoon character.

Ahhh... Valentine's Day. Another day/holiday/event for women to shamelessly try to out do one another on "what a great man" they've got. Bleck. If you've got to facebook it, instagram it, tweet it, text it, or otherwise... maybe that man ain't so great every other day of the year.

There was a time I was into all that. There was also a time when I was young, immature, and seventeen. Now all I see is stores bathed in pepto-bismal colors four days after Christmas and endless commercials for flowers, cards, teddy bears, and cake. Yes, cake. I saw one local ad the other day informing me that if I really loved that special someone in my life, I would show it with their signature strawberry-layered cake. Of course, that cake will set you back about forty bucks, but hey... that's just three-quarters of a tank of gas anymore, right?

Anyway.

Maybe I'm jealous at the core.

(deep soul searching at the moment)

No. I really don't think I am. I know the husband loves me with or without that five-dollar Hallmark card. He loves me with oil changes and new tires and a little pond with a trickling fountain outside my kitchen window. He loves me by filling a bubbling-massaging thing for my tired feet when I complain that they hurt. He loves me by fixing fluffy omelets filled with cheese and extra pepper because he knows I can never fold one on my own and keep it whole. He knows I love him by the dresser drawer filled with clean, rolled socks and neatly tri-folded underwear.

I aim to please.

I watch my kids encounter their own dilemmas with this heart-shaped, drippingly sweet, lace-trimmed day. One wants to pull off the perfect surprise. One wants to find money hiding in the couch. One wants to sleep through the day. I can relate on all three accounts, Valentine's Day or not. I just hope they can see through all the fluff to know that love and tenderness and putting someone else first should be a priority on any day, not just the day that Wal-Mart tells us it should happen.

How in the world this turned into a ramble about Valentine's Day, I have no idea. That was really not my intent. I suppose I was just thinking on the way home that even if I wanted to get something, I could not. The five dollars in my purse is destined for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, not Valentine chocolates. Even so, I can do better with a container of Hershey's cocoa powder in my cabinet than anything I could find on a shelf at Walgreens. The family will be treated tomorrow, regardless of my feelings surrounding another over-commercialized day on the calendar.

Any day's a good day for chocolate.

I Could Be Something Great (If I Ever Got Out Of Bed)

I do some of my best writing at night.

In bed.
In my mind.

Complete essays. Deep insight. Intriguing theories.

Introduction.
Body.
Conclusion.

I can picture the written word clearly. I visualize the paragraphs, use good transitional sentences, and correct my grammar. I think of different opening lines and optional closing remarks. I convince myself that I'll remember it all in the morning and eventually drift off to sleep.

Then I wake up and remember nothing.

Oh, I remember tidbits here and there. It's like catching a glimpse of something great, like maybe the sun trying to peek through dark curtains on a dreary day, but never quite grasping the full, glorious picture. Such a mental block climbs beyond frustration. I really should get up when inspiration strikes, but that bed is too darn warm.

Such is the price of laziness.

Last night's masterpiece included a response to a recent blog I read via Pinterest. The young author presented her ten (or maybe fourteen?) surefire steps to a happy, healthy marriage. This female optimist has been married for three (or maybe five?) years and has no children. Judging from the pictures that accompanied her post, she and her husband are fresh out of college, attractive as in that athletic way, and in love with the world and everyone around them.

And if you know me, you can only imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind.

Well, okay... my thoughts were not that dire. I'm all for optimistic love. Really. I was there once, too. I'm still in love with the man and with the hope that never ends and with the knowledge that my God says it will all work out in the end. Life has a way of throwing those curve balls at you, though. Things you never saw coming. Things that if you had saw coming you might have cashed it in then for fear that you would never make it out alive.

But you do make it out. A little more beat up. Maybe some bruises. Definitely a scar or two. A war story all your own.

The husband says he thinks things are about to change for us. Maybe the tide is turning. He's been deep in his Bible of a night. Maybe he's reading about the end times. Maybe he's reading about Job. I don't ask. That's between him and the Lord and a direct violation of Optimistic Young Wife's Advice in Tip Number Seven (or maybe Tip Number Nine?). According to her, I'm suppose to ask him his thoughts on a daily basis.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

She'll learn and she'll tweak her own tips as the years progress and babies come and money goes. I should know. I tweak my own internal advice on a daily basis. I expect the unexpected.

And I've not been disappointed.

Now if I'd only get out of bed and transfer those nighttime writings from my mind to paper, I might actually get somewhere... and make a whole lot more sense in the process.

Memories, December, And Pictures To Go With It

The second of December? Good Lord. Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was trudging through knee-deep snow in the Rocky Mountains hoping to induce labor...  that and walking up and down a flight of steps during every commercial break of The Young and The Restless and As The World Turns (my soap opera days). I can't remember my exact due date with the oldest. I think it was November 27th at first and was later changed to December 9th, or something like that. Doesn't matter. He arrived just when he was suppose to, somewhere in the middle of those two guessing dates on the morning of December 4, 1993.

I remember the night before his birth so clearly that it's almost eerie. I'm sure I am not alone in that some memories are so exact, so right there, I swear my mind could fool myself if only for a short time. I was wearing a light blue and white-striped button down, short-sleeved shirt. The husband came home from his Army duties to a supper of Hamburger Helper Chili Mac and after the sun went down, we sat in a dark living room of our rented town home on the ugliest-couch-known-to-man looking at the twinkling lights on our first Christmas tree together. Around ten o'clock we went to bed and around eleven o'clock I knew something felt different. A few hours later, I called the maternity ward at the hospital, described what I was feeling to the friendly Air Force nurse, and was assured that I was not in labor.

She was wrong.

I remember the husband insisting we take our little baby carrier and my packed bag to the hospital when I finally woke him up and we left our home around three in the morning. I told him there was no need, the lady said it wasn't labor, and that they would probably give me something to help my stomach (keep in mind this was my first, my mom wasn't close by, and the book did not describe anything I was feeling). Ever the practical man, he said he wasn't making a trip back to get everything and he was pretty sure this was the big moment.

He was right.

That little boy showed up a little after six-thirty that morning and we made the happy calls to the grandparents. The next day, we loaded that little baby seat into the backseat of a Mustang where I hovered beside him terrified of all the passing cars on the freeway. I can still see us arriving back at our town home, setting our tiny little bundle still in his baby seat on that ugly couch, and looking at each other. We had nobody but us and I don't mind admitting that I felt utterly helpless. Nine months was suddenly not nearly enough time to prepare for our new family of three and our home felt a lot different than a fully staffed maternity ward. Thank God for that man. He sprang into action and by the end of that first hour had me settled into our not-so-ugly rocking-chair holding the most beautiful baby ever while he lined up bottles and stacked diapers and did everything else that needed to be done. It took a few more days of this same pattern before he looked at me and said, Wanna take him to see your parents?

And that's what we did... took a less-than-one-week-old baby on a fourteen-hour drive from the Rocky Mountains to the Midwest (in DECEMBER, of all times) and gave my mom and dad the surprise of their life.

One of my all-time favorite memories.

The tree we sat looking at on the evening of December 3rd.

Surprising my parents a week later.

The striped blue and white shirt and the ugly couch .

The not-so-ugly rocking chair.

When I Grow Up, I Will Live In Washington State And Have Twelve Children (hysterical laughing in the background)

I am a mom of three kids. Back when I dreamed of being a mom of three kids- well, technically I dreamed about being a mom of twelve kids, but then I had one, went for two, and decided three was a good place to stop... but anyway, back when I dreamed of being a mom, I dreamed of a busy, busy world full of chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk. My kids would love me and hug me and wish me a daily farewell with a kiss on the cheek. They would seek me out for advice and listen intently to my stories and write about me in school essays. In short, I would be the center of their world.

You can stop laughing now.

You know, for a while, that's not too far off from how it was. With the exception of the My Mom Is My Hero essay, I do believe that for quite some time I was nothing short of Supermom to my kids. I knew the dream was coming to an end, however, when one particular day the standard kiss-on-the-cheek goodbye was masterfully avoided by one of my little sweet ones. Since that time, it's been nothing but downhill and just the way it should be. I'm no longer the primary cookie baker and I can't keep enough milk in the house to offer it ice cold. While I'm pretty confident I am loved and hugs really aren't that rare, I don't know if my advice is really adhered to or merely endured. And my stories? Well, I think somewhere along the way they stopped listening.

Hence, the birth of this blog.

Twelve kids? I also wanted to marry my high school sweetheart and live in the Northwest.

I've never really been good with setting goals and following through.

For my husband of might-as-well-say twenty years,
My three teenagers who do not to shrink from my hugs,
And my newly adopted southern home,

Some of the best-laid plans really aren't the best plans at all.

Things I Learned From Laura Ingalls

Some afternoons I don't get too much farther than the front porch. Today was no exception. I've been on a Little House kick lately and the in the last few days have reread (for the who-knows-how-many-times) the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder series. If you know the books, you know this is no remarkable task. They read on probably a fourth grade level and it takes no time to fly right through them. I don't know what takes me back to these books from time to time. After all, I'm also very much into the fictional Mitch Rapp and his covert, modern-day political adventures courtesy of one of my favorite authors, Vince Flynn. Whatever takes me back to prairie days, however, never fails to put me in a reflective and peaceful state of mind. Maybe that's why I like it so well. Cheap therapy.

I finished The First Four Years today while eating a bowl of ice cream that hid a brownie at the bottom and checked my phone from time to time in case the oldest called. I thought of Laura and Almanzo and all the failed crops in those early years. They had a considerable amount of debt, endured the unexpected death of a three-week old baby boy, and lost their home to a fire. Last night my husband patiently listened over a basket of chips and salsa while I recounted some of my favorite Laura stories. Most notably was the time of Laura and Almanzo's courtship in These Happy Golden Years. While teaching for two months at a claim school twelve miles away from her home, Almanzo made a weekly trip to bring Laura home on the weekends. On one particular occasion, he sat with his horses looking at a thermometer that read forty-below with an open, snowy prairie before him. While considering what he should do, a friend rode up beside him and seeing his predicament, simply stated, "God hates a coward." That settled it and off Almanzo went to bring Laura home.

I thought of my husband today as I stretched out on the swing he made me some fifteen years ago for our fourth anniversary. He worked late every night for a while building it while I complained late every night about him never being home (having no idea what was keeping him from home). That swing has since followed us everywhere we've went and neither one of us are blind to the fact that it is a perfect fit on the porch we now have. He built it long enough so that I could nap on it (he knew me well even then) and the quilt that has been on it for some time now once belonged to my step-grandpa. If you don't mind the dust and pollen on the floor, you can look up from the bottom and see a hand-carved message that means as much to me now as it did when I first saw it.

What does all this have to do with Laura and Almanzo? I honestly have no idea except for the fact that I can appreciate a good love story anytime I read one. And to me, a marriage that withstood the test of droughts and blizzards and sickness and debt is one to celebrated. If I am learning anything through this life as I know it so far, it's that marriage is not for the faint of heart... kinda like prairie life in the Dakota Territories during the late 1800s. It takes steadfast determination to make it through the difficult times and a thankful heart to appreciate the good times.

A front porch swing and a set of worn out paperbacks doesn't hurt either.

Happy 46th Anniversary, Mom and Dad. 

My Daughter Has Lost Her Mind

I told her I was going give this entry that title.
She said, "Fine by me. I'll like it."
So here you go, girl. This one's for you.

She said she wanted to spend time with me so I suggested the front porch swing. My first question? What do you want? Her response was the rolling of the eyes and the sweet assurance that she wanted nothing, only my company. So I asked her what his name was.

Quentin.
Quentin?
Quentin.

He's got blonde hair and blue eyes and lives in Sweden. He likes to play football or soccer or something. At this point I had already zoned her out because obviously, there is no Quentin. Then she started singing and texting and tossing ice cubes off the porch. I challenged her with landing one in the bird bath to which she quickly accepted. She went through a couple of ziplocks full of ice before she proclaimed her arm too tired to continue. Now she's back inside anxiously awaiting tonight's new season of Dancing With The Stars. Lord, I hope those girls have some clothes on.

Tomorrow is my wedding anniversary. Earlier today I thought I would break out the wedding album. Would you believe I couldn't find it? I'm not sure if that's a sign or what. Ha! The husband just left with cash in hand to buy me a gift, I presume. He asked me what I wanted and it only took me a minute to think. No jewelry. No clothes. No techno gadgets.

A vacuum.
Because I need a new vacuum.
Is that lame or what?

Hey, it is what it is. If he's in the spending mood, then I'm gonna jump on what I need and a vacuum cleaner it would be. Now I don't know if he'll actually get one or not, but it doesn't really matter to me. Each year we make it through is celebration enough. Nineteen years. Pretty good considering we only dated a month before the blessed proposal.

Now if I could only find that album.
And my daughter could find her mind.
Things would be just about perfect.  =)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*He did return later with a new vacuum cleaner, just so you know. He proudly fixed it up and plugged it in, passing the baton (handle) to me to give it a whirl. At some point in my newfound suction-ing glory, the thought did pass through my head... I should've asked for diamonds.


Ha! Just kidding.
Diamonds can't pick up cat hair.

What Valentine's Day Is Not...

a dozen roses.
a box of chocolates.
a mass-produced card.
a set of diamond earrings.
a heart-shaped balloon attached to a teddy bear.

Sure, all that stuff is sweet and makes us feel all tingly and special on the inside, but what about the other days of the year? I'm thinking about all those flat tires and mandatory oil changes and clogged drains and the hideous spider on the wall that the man in my life takes care of so I don't have to. Or the time a mouse was in our bedroom and the husband stuffed towel barriers under the doors and chased that little rodent with a broom until he triumphantly removed it (much to my delight) in the middle of the night. He battled slimy slugs in one house, got ambushed by smelly ladybugs trapped in a vent in another house. He's changed out fifty-year old sewer pipes and more nasty toilets than I can count on two hands. He put in a ventless gas log system because wood smoke makes my eyes burn. He tinted my car windows so I wouldn't be so hot in the southern heat.

Yes, he's given me all the above Valentine paraphernalia at one time or another in our nineteen years (minus the balloon and teddy bear combo; he's just not that kind of man). He surprises me with unexpected gifts every now and then (like my pink bike from last year), but most of the time, it's just those day-to-day tasks that remind me I am the special one in his life. You can't buy that feeling on any Walmart shelf. This year, however, I think my daughter must have got a hold of him because he presented me with flowers on Sunday, a card on Monday, and a pair of earrings Today. He got a hold of her right back, though, when she found a card with her name on it propped up on the computer desk this morning. You want to make any teenage girl feel special? Give her a card that unfolds to a big heart and signed by her daddy. I don't know what he wrote in there, but by the smile on her face... well, that man did good. Real good.

People either love Valentine's Day or they hate it. They either know the history of it or they don't. Doesn't really matter to me. Those flowers wilt and get tossed; the chocolate becomes something we have to battle later on. That spider, though? He knows not the day on the calendar.

I'm counting on my valentine to be prepared all year long.

Planning My Funeral At The DMV

While spending an hour and a half in our local DMV completing the tedious task of renewing and exchanging plates, my husband and I covered a multitude of conversational topics. We talked about taxes and politics, kids and supper ideas, and the annoying woman in the back who would not stop complaining about how long everything was taking. While the rest of us were thinking, Join the club, lady, the employee behind the counter patiently reminded her, No profanity in this office, please. Eventually our conversation turned to the unavoidable end of life on earth as we know it, and I'm sure we were entertaining those around us as much as the still complaining lady in the back.

I want you to bury me in my uniform, said the husband, referring to his military Class A's. Not on your life, said I. That uniform stays with me.

I want to be buried in that uniform, period, he said. Fine, but the ribbons and badges come off before they put you in the ground. You gotta have something to pass down through the generations, was my response. Nope. Everything goes with me. I've seen that stuff in flea markets before. It goes with me, he insisted.

So be it, I sighed. Then the wedding ring stays with you, too.

Oh no, he said. You keep that. Don't put me in the ground with that thing on.

It is so staying on, I assured him. Till death do us part and beyond, buddy.

He looked at me and winked and mumbled something about never being rid of me. Meanwhile, I got to thinking about my own closet and what in the world I would be buried in. I mean, technically, I'm all for cremation, but that topic has stirred up more than enough trouble with those around me. Suffice it to say, if I go before anyone who has other plans, it will make no difference what I would prefer and really... I'm okay with that. I suppose a funeral is mainly for the living anyway, isn't it? No sense creating more havoc during a time that has enough difficulties of its own. At any rate, I mentioned that nothing in my closet that looked nice would fit me at this point. 

What would I be buried in? 

Not my own military uniform. That thing should be preserved for posterity's sake (and besides, the collar drives me crazy. No one would ever believe I looked at peace while wearing that). Not my black suit. Too tight. Jeans and a t-shirt? Comfy, but no. Look, said the man of compassion,  I'll just put a pink top on you with a pink sweater and you'll be happy. (This was said to score brownie points at the remembrance of my favorite color). I don't know, I said, that's just too big of a chance to leave it up to you. After all, I've dealt with my fair share of questionable birthday and Christmas gifts.  I thought about it some more and then a picture popped into my head.

My wedding dress! Bury me in my wedding dress!

He looked at me like I had lost my mind and then started laughing.

Yeah, I can see you wanting that.

I love that dress, I insisted.

I know you do, but your wedding dress? Bet that would be a first.

And fluff it up all around me, I told him.  It'll look like I'm floating on a cloud. Might as well make a statement and besides, I always have wanted to wear it one more time. Just do what you have to to make it fit.

So there you have it, kids.

Dad in his uniform. Mom in her gown.

End it like it all started.

*And yeah... I would rather my daughter or granddaughter or somebody wear my wedding gown rather than stuffing it in a pine box, but hey, it made for a good conversation. Anything to pass the time at the DMV. =)

The Year Of Me

Say what you will, but this year brought a strange twist to the traditional passing out of the presents. After Santa, aka the youngest, handed out the last gift, a strange hush fell over the room. Mom! Look at all your presents! I looked down, then looked around. Indeed, I was surrounded by gifts galore (at least by my standards). The others had some, too, but mine outnumbered them all.

I like to call it

The Year Of Mom,

And it's about time.



Random Note: If you look past me to the oldest, you'll see him gazing in wonder at that crazy black cat of ours.





And the fact that most of the presents were from the husband and included such practical things like new glasses for the kitchen, fuzzy socks to keep my feet warm, and a gift box full of silky underwear (seriously) did not diminish the excitement of my bigger-than-the-rest pile.

Besides, he also got me perfume called Rebel Chic and Luv-A-Licious.

To quote a friend of mine, Stand back, girls. He's all mine.

The Year Of Mom. The Year of The Wife.

It's all good in my book.

Wanted: A Good Job For A Good Man

Once again I find myself sitting across the table from my husband (reminds me of this time not long ago). His pen is poised in mid-air, his brow is wrinkled as he thinks. Every now and then he sighs heavily and looks at me, trying his best to smile. I watch as he tries to think of the right words. I look up stuff on my laptop when he asks. I've made copies of diplomas and discharge papers and social security cards and anything else that might pop up. And all I can think is, Please, Lord. Let this be the one.

Have you guessed it yet?
Another job application.

He's not afraid of anything. The only thing that worries him is his age. Not gettin' any younger, he says. Maybe not, but you sure are getting better, I reply. That makes him smile for real. Is there any man that doesn't want to be the stud-kinda-hero to his wife? He's talking to a friend of his now on the phone. A good guy he wants to use as a reference. He won't write anybody's name down who he doesn't call to let them know. This is probably about the fourth time he's called this particular guy. I can almost hear the questions the other guy is asking.

How ya doing anyway?
Not too bad.
No luck with a job yet?
No, but I'm still looking.
You holding up okay, though?
Heck, yeah. I've lost weight and my blood pressure is down.

That's the truth, too. Since he got out of that cubicle, he's lost a good fifteen pounds or so and may very well be off his blood pressure meds within the next month. He's less stressed, honestly does smile more... just that absence of a steady paycheck that's the kicker.

His phone call is over.
His pen is back in hand.

Hey, honey? Find me Bob's phone number, will ya?

Please, Lord. Let this be the one.

H + A = 4ever

At least it better.
I have no desire to start over again.
Someone else might make me work.

My BFF comes back today. Thank the Lord. Two weeks gone is two weeks too long and no... I really don't care if you think I'm too needy or too dependent or too whatever. The only downside, however, is that now I have to restock the fridge. The kids and I have survived on few necessities: milk, cereal, toaster strudels, and gatorade.... that a whole lot of dollar menu fast food. Oh well. All good things must come to an end. I'm gonna straighten the house, make a pitcher of sweet tea, and head to the grocery store.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That was this morning and I pretty much accomplished everything except for the pitcher of sweet tea. He'll survive, though... it's all good as long as there's Coca-Cola in the house. I'm also thinking that it's a good sign that after almost nineteen years of being with the same man, I still felt the need to change my outfit a total of five times, curl my hair no less than three times, and have been in full make-up since around two o'clock. Every time a truck goes by my drive-way, I jump up to see if it's him.

And he just called.
Twenty minutes out.
That gives me time for one more outfit change.

Diet Is A Dirty Word

The house has been cleaned thanks to a girl who is hoping for some mall spending money and a brief moment of guilt that found me relaxing in the a/c with a new book while the husband is out in this ridiculous heat. As a result, the counters are spotless, the floors shine, all furballs have been vacuumed, and stray papers have been tossed. That all should last until about six o'clock tonight, or until the oldest finishes nuking his mac-n-cheese.

After tonight I will once again be a married woman. My wedding rings have been hidden away at the jewelers awaiting a re-sizing that has been a few years in the making. A couple of weeks ago, my husband got tired of seeing me without a wedding band and promptly hauled me (and the rings) to the jewelry store. In the past eighteen-plus years, my ring size has increased and it got to the point where I could no longer just blame it on periodic swollen fingers. My ring finger was measured (no wonder they didn't fit anymore), a new diamond selected (the husband's idea, I promise), and the bill was paid (while he looked the other way).

Of course, that was the same week the same husband lost his job.
Timing is everything, isn't it?
At least we have a ring to pawn if we need to.

Ha! Like that would ever happen. Other things would go first. I'm thinking every electronic gadget for starters (sorry kids), but like I tell the family, let's not dwell on such things now. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. At any rate, tonight is the night we pick up the rings. I told him he would have to put them on my finger and mean it this time (another joke). The original plan was to have a nice dinner out. Now we're thinking more along the lines of a shared gyro and fries at the food court in the mall. It's all about priorities.

House payment.
Electric bill.
Then maybe we can eat.

Speaking of eating, what is about a clean house that makes one kid want to cook while another eats chips in the living room? I would say something, but I'm thinking of coffee and cake and my cozy spot on the couch. Yeah. That's the ticket. Coffee with rich creamer and a piece of butter cake slathered with chocolate frosting while thinking about a set of rings that no longer fit. Hey, at least I see things for how they are: I'm not afraid of the truth; I'm just slow to react to it sometimes.

I won't think about that today.
I'll think about that tomorrow.
Wasn't I suppose to be starting a spin class sometime?

Now the house no longer smells lemony fresh. There's a strange, toxic mixture of the beforementioned mac-n-cheese and doritos now combined with the distinct odor of ramen noodles. Can somebody please crank up the Glade Plug-Ins? When does school start? Drat these kids who always want to eat.

Wait a minute...

I think I was going for a piece of cake.

Where Does Money Grow?

Good Morning, youngest child of mine.
See? You miss me so much you've been reading my blog.
I knew I'd get you hooked sooner or later. 

And yes, I'm sure you'll have a comeback for that. Can't wait to hear it.

My husband commented last night how much he is enjoying this time with just the two of us. Sure, we miss the kids and they do make up most of our conversation topics, but I do understand where he's coming from. When we were married over eighteen years ago, we really didn't know each other that well. Making a decision to get married after a month's worth of dating does not give the other person a chance to really get to know you. We knew all the good stuff, but that's about it. Then the first year was spent preparing for the first child and by the fifth year, we had completed our family of five and that was that.

Cheap diapers and plastic bottles and squeaky toys.
Big-kid pants and juice boxes and toy boxes.
Baggy jeans and soda cans and electronics everywhere.

So yes, we have enjoyed this time together. What makes it so relaxing also is knowing right where those kids are. They couldn't ask for better grandparents and just knowing that they are all together... well, let me put it this way: we were out eating the other night when a horrendous storm blew in out of nowhere. As we sat helplessly watching trees bend and lightning seemingly strike everywhere, I looked at my husband and said, Well, the timing would be perfect. If anything were to happen to us, those kids are right where they need to be.

Morbid? Maybe, but we always worry about the what ifs in life. It was good to know that for that moment, all was well. Don't get me wrong, I know God would work everything out no matter if all five of us were scattered in five different directions, but I'm thinking you'll get my point. It really has been a relaxing few weeks.

Now can my mom say the same thing? I certainly hope so. I wonder if having those three teenagers in her house with hot showers going, hair dryers blowing, and refrigerator doors opening makes her breathe a sigh of relief that her days raising kids full time is over. Then again, I almost doubt it. Knowing her, she's probably treasuring every moment of it. My dad? Well, hopefully he's able to get past the sharp spike in the utility bill. One thing is for sure, I finally understand the term Money doesn't grow on trees.  He has taught me well.

Laughing While I Wait

For the record, and because I'm feeling especially generous right now, my husband rarely fails in making me feel better. I can have a rough day, be utterly discouraged, and he can brush it all away with a So? Just do it this way. I can be so worked up about things and he can be so laid back about everything. Sometimes it's a good fit and sometimes it drives me crazy; but tonight, it was a very good thing.

It all goes back to me still not having a job and still being in school. I was hoping to finish by this December; it's now looking like it may be to my benefit to finish four months later (in April 2012). On the plus side, I could not be so rushed and push off those student loans a few extra months. I'm obviously not working anywhere anytime soon. On the downside, I really just want to be done. He's got his eye set on a master's for me. Heck, I think he dreams of a doctorate. He really is all about me.

I get so stressed about not working and not bringing in extra income. My heart cried out to the Lord today because I know that I have so much to offer. Do you get that this is not pride here? I know how He has made me. I know when He is smiling on me. I'm telling you people... I love to teach! And write! And talk! Good grief, just give me a classroom with bored stares and heavy sighs. I'll have them singing prepositions and identifying presidents and doing the diagram dance within a matter of weeks. I'm crazy enough to love that stuff.

And yet I wait.
But we were here earlier today.
I promise I won't go back.

My husband. Next to the Lord and my mom and dad, he is my biggest fan. You know, he rarely reads this blog. He just never thinks about it really, but when he does, he always says that same thing. That's really good. A meal hardly ever goes by that he doesn't tell the kids, Boy, your mom can really cook. And most nights when he comes home? The house sure looks nice. Look, I've never claimed to be all about women's rights. I like being a wife. I like being a mom. I find much joy in shiny floors and folded underwear.

Boring? Maybe.
Lonely? Never.
Depressed for long?

Not a chance.

Yep. I had a rough day. Kind of emotional. Up and down. Bills discourage me. Knowing I've been passed over for a job I really wanted? Major bummer. College courses not following my plan only add to my pain. Then again, I could possibly be graduating a month before our oldest graduates high school and I gotta tell you, that kinda made me smile.

I wonder if he'll pose with me in graduation caps?

God has a plan.
My husband makes me laugh.
The kids forgot to do the dishes.

It'll all work out in the end.

Somebody's Whistling At Me

And so it's been another day of watching internet weather and calling family members. May has turned out to be one eventful month. Facebook actually came in handy today as I was able to talk with some others back home before I actually got a hold of my mom. At last check, she was still waiting for word from her sister. As for our weather? Another day of near 100s and just plain yucky outside. I'm praying our complaining fuel pump doesn't leave me stranded somewhere on the hot asphalt. My live-in mechanic has promised to remedy the situation this weekend.

On the plus side, my husband (and the same live-in mechanic) got a good report from his doctor today. Turns out meds for high blood pressure and over-the-top cholesterol are a good thing (inside joke here). That man has been a walking heart attack (okay, maybe not that extreme) since he had one when he was twenty-eight. His heart may be in good shape for now, but his blood pressure and such has always been on the high side, especially here lately. Six months ago his health insurance provider basically said, Get this under control or watch your rates go up. He may not listen to me and my pleas for his good health, but he understands the concept of pay more quite well. To celebrate the good news (along with losing five pounds), he had pizza and soda for lunch. Ha!

Speaking of which, my cell should be whistling any moment now for his daily on his way home phone call. That sound is the highlight of my day (okay... most days). Funny, though, how all the tragedy playing out on an almost  daily basis makes you appreciate the little things all the more.

And there's that whistle now. =)

The Ugly Truth

My husband did the nicest thing for me last night and it has nothing to do with flowers or cleaning or kisses or chocolate (although I'm a big fan of all four of those). After repeatedly asking me what was wrong and what was bothering me and why I was so acting the way I was... I finally told him and let me assure you, it was not a pretty sight.

I got pretty angry.
I really let him have it.
And it had nothing to do with him.

Or maybe it did.

The emotions of a woman. Poor, poor man. We stood outside in the drizzling cool of the night and he listened while I recapped every person and every moment in my life that has ever let me down. I stopped beating around the bush and trying to protect his feelings and trying to hide mine. I admitted things to him that I have never confessed out loud (and remember, we're talking feelings here; not criminal acts). I tried to put into words the utter despair that I feel at times is so anchored within me... so lodged in tight, so stuck... that sometimes I feel dead on the inside.

(How's this for truth?)

He said two things to me. First, he talked about my grandma and how better things felt when she was around. Well, that's a no-brainer. That little woman was a mighty prayer warrior. Sitting with her could be like sitting with Jesus, snapping green beans and all.

Secondly, he said one simple word to me: resentment. When he said that, I felt the breath go out of me. I stumbled over a few words and tried to make excuses and said something like, Oh no, that's not me, but I went to bed with that word on my mind and woke up with it still there.

resent: verb. To take ill; to consider as an injury or affront.

Sometimes facing the truth about ourselves is a very tough pill to swallow. The truth does indeed hurt. He wasn't trying to hurt me, though. He listened and he waited and then he simply pointed out what he was hearing. He didn't accuse me of whining. He didn't blow me off. He wants me to happy.

And the word happy is nowhere in that definition.

I could keep going, but sometimes I sense the Lord controlling the backspace button. Not everything needs to be expressed. For some reason, this did. Maybe it was so I can see the truth before me. Maybe it's so you can know you're not alone. Maybe somebody needed to witness the many flaws in my character.

Only He knows.

Thank you, Lord, for my husband.

And for truth, no matter how ugly it can be.

I'm not where I should be, but I'm not where I was either.

We'll call that progress and move on with the rest of the day.