Today Tate and I celebrate our seven year anniversary.  

On the morning of July 14, 2001, I woke up very early, unable to go back to sleep due to the anticipation of this long awaited day.  I went down to the hotel lobby to have breakfast.  My dad happened to be in the lobby, so he and I ate breakfast together.  Sitting there with just my dad before my big day is one of my favorite memories from the day.

Later that morning, I saw my grandpa.  He asked me if I knew that July 14th was also my grandmother’s birthday, she’d passed away when I was just a young child.  I hadn’t known that our wedding date was also her birthday, making the day that much more special. 

When the doors of the church opened, Tate looked like he was going to cry.  I’ve asked him many times since if it was because of my breathtaking beauty or his nerves…of course, he always answers correctly.  It was all I could do not to ugly cry as I walked down the aisle.

At our reception, I told the DJ that I did not want to hear any music by AC/DC or Rush, two of my most detested bands.  It didn’t matter if one of the reception guests requested to hear one of their songs, he was supposed to tell them that he’d add it to his list but then never get to it.  He respected my wishes.  Smart DJ.

We served a buffet dinner, which sadly I barely remember.  I know I ate, I know that we had prime rib, but I don’t even recall if it was good.  So sad to not even remember the food.  I love reminiscing about food.  What’s even more sad though, is that I only got one bite of wedding cake.  I told Tate prior to the wedding that if he smeared cake in my face, he’d pay dearly.  Tate respected my wishes.  Smart Tate.

We decided that getting a limo to drive us to our hotel where we’d spend our wedding night would be silly.  To save money, my mom drove us to our hotel.  I remember laughing as she dropped us off, knowing what we were getting ready to go do for the VERY FIRST TIME.  *ahem* 

Tate carried me over the threshold.  Thinking about that makes my heart flutter. 

A wedding is just one day out of a marriage, but ours was a WONDERFUL day to BEGIN our marriage.  I had no doubt in my mind that I was making the right choice.  I still have no doubt that Tate is my one and only. 

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Yesterday’s post straight out of 1950 where I play the perky, but sometimes discontent housewife got me thinking about our roles as women these days.

Somehow my train of thought led me to start thinking about the wedding of a friend, actually the wedding where I met Tate, where my girlfriend’s part of the vows included saying that she promised to love, honor, and obey her husband.  I remember being utterly shocked.  Obey??  Really?  It was 1998, not 1898. 

After the wedding, (not right after, more like a year or two after) I asked her why they included the word “obey” in her vows.  She said she hadn’t even realized that and joked that really it should have been her husband who promised to obey because we all knew who REALLY wore the pants in that family.

I’m just going to go ahead and throw this out there that this was a Baptist wedding.  Me not being Baptist, I have no idea if this is common practice, or if it’s common amongst different types of Baptists and not others. I also have no idea if other religions include this in their vows, though I’m certain it’s not just a Baptist thing.   My Methodist wedding vows did not include the word “obey,” which is a good thing because I wouldn’t have been cool with saying that.

In my opinion, I cannot fathom vowing to obey anyone.   Conversely, I wouldn’t want someone to vow to obey me.   (Well, okay, I sorta would.)  It seems very outdated and has been outdated since the last century.  I am aware, though I don’t fully understand that the “obey” part of the vows is not only said, but also adhered to for some.  Saying that is in no way meant to be judgmental, but since it is not a part of my reality, it’s hard for me to comprehend. 

I’m curious if your vows include the word “obey?”  If so, what did you think about it?

I know this topic has the possibility of starting a firestorm in the comments because we may be discussing faith based, personal issues, so I just ask that whatever your opinion, please respect other’s viewpoints.

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Despite watching years and years of daytime/self-help-style talk shows like Donahue, Oprah, and Dr. Phil, and learning that you cannot expect people to read your mind, this is exactly the trap I set for my ever-suffering husband yesterday.   Despite my husband’s kind offers to take the kids out for the day to give me a break or to do anything I could reasonably imagine, all I could muster in response was a mournful and sigh-laden, “I don’t know.”  **shrugs and pouts**

I swear I don’t know how he stays married to me.  I am insufferable!

In some sort of defense of myself, I do have several reasons why I didn’t jump at Tate’s offer to make himself and the kids scarce.  First, I’ll admit to being completely ashamed that I’d rather not be around my children on Mother’s Day.  I feel like I must have some sort of mothering flaw to want to send my children away on the the ONE day that celebrates mothering them.  Aside from my inherent flaws, I also know, well I at least hope, that solitude will not be my solo goal for future Mother’s Days.  One day I won’t spend every waking second with them and I’ll WANT to spend a special day like Mother’s Day with my kids.

I was also afraid to take Tate’s offer of solitude because I was afraid that I’d answer too gleefully.  “YES!  Go AWAY.  Go FAR, FAR away and don’t come back for hours.  Leave me the hell alone!  Amen!  I don’t have to spend the day with you SUCKAS!  I’m FREE!  FREEEEEEEE!”

So instead I moped and sulked and heavy sighed.  My logical self kept telling my asshole self to just come out and tell Tate that yes, I would really enjoy spending the day alone.  My asshole self kept telling my logical self that Tate should JUST KNOW that I want to be alone, since I was obviously sending him all sorts of signs.

Thank goodness my logical side gave my asshole side a swift kick in, well, the ass.

I finally told Tate that it would be really nice if he and the kids left for awhile.  Without complaining, Tate got the kids ready and they left for the afternoon.  He even took them during their afternoon nap, which in and of itself makes Tate a SAINT.

Amen.

While they were gone I caught up on this season of the best of trash TV, The Hills, and watched a few episodes of WE’s High School Confidential (thanks for tip on this show Shelly!).  I also peed blissfully alone which was truly thrilling.

When they returned, St. Tate informed me that he’d made the executive decision to make me a fabulous dinner.  Without any help from me, he grilled ribeyes, roasted asparagus, and made a spinach salad with warm bacon dressing.  For dessert he made ice cream floats.  Then he cleaned up the kitchen and folded laundry all by himself while I enjoyed a glass of wine.

Apparently St. Tate actually can read my mind.

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Every night before the kids’ bedtime, the whole family relaxes on the couch and watches one episode of Thomas, Max and Ruby, or Wonder Pets.  I’m not sure who likes the cartoons more, Carson or Tate and me.

Here’s a snippet of a recent conversation between Wonder Dork #1 and Wonder Dork #2:

Tate:  “Can we watch both Wonder Pets episodes?  I haven’t seen the one where the they save the kangaroo.”

Me:  “Oooh!  It’s a really good one!  It’s kind of a tear-jerker, though.  It all works out in the end, luckily.  They have celery on the barbie when they find the kangaroo’s mommy.”

We looked at each other and realized to our horror that any semblence of cool that we liked to pretend still existed had at that moment gone up in poof of smoke.  

Since we had already lost our membership in the cool club, Tate and I belted out all the lyrics to the Wonder Pets songs.

(Just shut up. okay?!)  (Don’t pretend that you don’t tear up at Wonder Pets occasionally and sing along, too.)  (And I’m sorry if I gave away the ending to the kangaroo episode.  I probably should have given a spoiler alert.)

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Swistle asked us how we found out we were pregnant.  And what Swistle’s asks, Jennifer answers.

Tate and I decided that it was time to make a baby.  I don’t leave a lot to chance, I’m a planner, see.  I decided to start charting and charting I did.  Obsessively.  When I wasn’t pregnant the first two months, I made an appointment with my OB/Gyn.  (There are some known fertility issues between Tate and myself that I really cannot discuss here.) I took in my meticulously completed charts.  Tate had even made one up on an Excel spreadsheet because he’s a D.O.R.K..  I showed my chart to my doctor and told him how concerned I was that I STILL WASN’T PREGNANT AFTER TWO WHOLE MONTHS OF TRYING. WAAH, WAAH!

The doctor was probably trying to keep himself from rolling his eyes or shooing me directly out the door, but he was very kind and let me know that I had nothing to worry about.  “It’s completely normal for perfectly healthy couples to take up to a year to get pregnant.  You’re fine.  And really, you don’t need to chart to get pregnant.”

But I wanted to be pregnant RIGHT NOW.  I was ready RIGHT NOW.  And the charting book said it shouldn’t take longer than four months if we were healthy??  What was this crazy talk about taking a year??? 

I got pregnant the next month.

It was day 30 or 31 of my cycle and I decided to take a test.  I waited until morning since I am a direction follower, especially when it comes to being pregnant or not pregnant.  The directions also said to wait five minutes before reading the results.  Five minutes when you want to be pregnant feels very much like five decades, but since I was afraid that if I didn’t follow the directions, I wouldn’t be pregnant, I waited five minutes.  After the brutal wait, I carefully took the test out of my drawer where I’d hidden it (so that I couldn’t peek) and saw two barely visible pink lines.  I had to squint to even see them.

Surely this was a defective test?  Barely visible=Defective test OR not pregnant, right?   I knew from having obsessively read the test’s directions, but both Tate and I were very skeptical, certain that there was an error. 

I had to go to out of town that day for a friend’s birthday party.  Since I wasn’t sure if I was pregnant, I didn’t drink or eat lunch meat or feta or breathe that evening.  When I got home the next day, Tate was waiting for me at the front door holding a pregnancy test.   We decided to be crazy rule breakers and I went and took the test right then (at 12:00 in the afternoon) and watched the little window as the test did it’s magic.  Within seconds, there were two VERY visible pink lines.  To be sure, we stared, dumbfounded for the full five minutes just to make sure the second pink line didn’t disappear.  It didn’t. 

We sat on our bed together, hugging and laughing and crying.  It was one of the best and scariest moments of my life.

For Ella, we charted also, but I was much less obsessive with charting.  We got pregnant the second month of trying.  I secretly took the test one morning (around day 33 of my cycle) since I had a been a raving lunatic the previous week and suspected I was pregnant.  It was about 5:40am, Tate was in the shower.  The test was immediately positive.  I started pacing back and forth in front of the shower, scared, but less so than last time, ecstatic, amazed, and impatient for Tate to finish showering.  Finally he got out of the shower and asked what I was doing walking around the bathroom.  I showed him the test and….I don’t really remember his reaction.  That makes me sad. 

I love that feeling, right after finding out that you are pregnant, when you can’t believe that you’re really pregnant and there is a tiny, wee human growing inside.   The feeling is best before you tell anyone, it’s your little secret.  Before we told anyone, I would look around me and wonder if anyone could just tell I was with child by my “glow.”

So tell me, or go tell Swistle, how did you find out?

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‘Twas the night before Christmas Eve Eve
And all throughout my house
Dog hair and toys had taken over
I shrugged and said, “It’s time to get soused.”

The wine glasses were filled to the brim with care
in hopes that a cleaning fairy soon would be there
With Tate wrapping presents and I frantically dusting
I suddenly yelled, “This bathroom’s disgusting.”

When over the monitor there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my duties to see what was the matter
Away to the nursery, I flew in a flash
Then realized it was nothing but that show on TV where choirs clash.

Tate mentioned something about my “moon” and my breasts
I just rolled my eyes at this wonky sex attempt, as you probably guessed
He retreated in defeat and went back to wrapping
I finished up cleaning and yearned for some napping

With an arm full of gifts, Tate came downstairs
I rummaged through the gifts to catch any spares
One for Carson, for Ella, for Tate, and for Nanny
For Papa, Uncle J, Aunt M, and for me

A calendar, a keychain, I already knew
Two more boxes, surprises! 
How exciting!
Phew!

My eyes how they twinkled!
This Christmas would be merry!
Even though my butt is all dimpled
and my fat rolls are like jelly

I spoke not a word, but went straight to work
I tugged on Tate’s hand and said, “you deserve a perk!”
We went back to the bedroom, for cuddles and kisses
Tate was quite pleased to get all of his wishes

And I heard him exclaim as he drifted off to sleep,
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.  I got you surprises to keep.”

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The night before we left Missouri to return home to Alabama, a 12+ hour trip, thankyouverymuch, both of my children decided that sleeping was for sissies and that screaming their lungs out was what all the “cool” kids were doing. Tate took the first shift with Carson, trying to calm him. After over an hour, I reluctantly went in to rescue Tate since I could hear the tone in his voice getting angrier by the minute. He seemed both relieved and irritated by my rescue attempt, but I think just my presence helped to settle both Tate and Carson.

I was able to return to bed, and Tate finally got Carson to sleep about an hour later and returned to bed. Literally within seconds of lying down, Ella started fussing. I heard Tate mutter “DAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMIIIIITTTTTT,” under his breath, and since he’d just spent the last two hours with Carson, I got up with Ella to calm her. She finally fell back to sleep after what seemed like four hours, but was probably something like 20 minutes.

Being a person who desperately needs her beauty sleep, I was so incredibly pissed when after about 30 minutes, Ella decided to wake up again. This time I muttered something (NOT under my breath) about throwing her out the window and letting her fend for herself.

“At least it will be quiet in here and we can finally sleep,” I huffed.

Sensing my obvious frustration (Tate is quick like that), he offered to take this shift with Ella. Unfortunately, she wanted only Mommy and Mommy’s boobies to fall back to sleep. I ended up feeding her and getting her back to sleep around 3 AM, an hour before our alarm was set to go off.

Both Tate and I were exhausted on our drive home. Even the tiniest of irritations could have sent each of us over the edge. Somehow, we were able to take turns having our own tantrums while the other remained calm, cool, and collected.

Tate and I seem to know how to balance the other’s mood. He (usually) seems to know when I’m at my wit’s end and ready to snap. Even when I adamantly deny needing a break, he’ll take over kid duty or cooking duty or whatever duty, and let me simmer down. The same thing is true when he is obviously about to lose it. I sweep in, take over, and give him the much needed break. Often, I feel somewhat resentful when I have to be the sane one, since I spent the majority of everyday attempting this sane facade. I suspect he feels the same resentment when he’s just returned from a stressful day at work and immediately has to take over when he walks in the door and finds me teetering on the edge of chaos.

Somehow we maintain this completely necessary balance. We’re a good team, Tate and I.

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