playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

Oh hi there!  I know, I know, it’s been days since I last wrote anything.  I attended Blissdom in Nashville and didn’t have a chance to write before leaving.  Normally this wouldn’t matter even one, tiny bit, but this time I left up such an angsty post!  I had every intention of writing something funny or a posting a cute picture of a kid or ANYTHING ELSE BUT THAT before the conference, but I just didn’t get a chance.

As always, from the very bottom of my heart, THANK YOU for your kind words and for your own personal stories regarding my State of our Marriage and rotten parenting worries.   Each of your comments meant such a great deal to me.  One in particular, from Rima, ended with a quote that I ADORE and want framed or tattooed somewhere on my body. I’m leaning towards framed rather than tattooed.

“Let everything happen to you – the beauty, the terror. Just keep going, no feeling is final.” ~Rilke

Is that not perfect?!  Thank you, Rima, truly.

I took your words and heart felt advice and talked to Tate before leaving for Nashville.  I knew that leaving with such a heavy burden on my heart and on my mind would have furthered the rift in our marriage.  In my mind, I planned to sit Tate down and have our much needed talk, but only after I had completely gotten ready for the next day’s departure.  Tate, however, decided to confront ME while I was in the middle of preparations.

Unfortunately I was completing a VERY IMPORTANT pre-conference beauty ritual when he decided it was time to talk.  I had just put whitening strips on my teeth.   How sherioush a convershation can you reary have when you’re wearing whitening shtripsh?  Yeah, I don’t know.  We might need to have a do-over very serious conversation since it was hard for both of us not to laugh with spit and speech impediments flying out of my mouth.

At least it was a start.

I know that I poke fun at Tate right here on the ol’ blog a lot. Maybe too often.

In my defense, I’ve tried and tried to get him to start his very own blog to record his OWN stories in his OWN words. He could also use his own platform to make fun of me. Surely I’d be as good a source of blog material as he is!

Sometimes I feel sort of bad that he gets his panties in a wad about things I’ve said about him or pictures of him that I’ve posted. I’m not trying to make fun of him outright , (YES, REALLY), I just think that the way we interact is often funny and it’s a source for inspiration.

So in honor of my wonderful husband, I’m going to try and devote an entire post to NOT spinning the facts into hilarious yarns where he ends up the Sonny to my Cher. (TRY.) (It’s the operative word.)

For the first time in I-can’t-remember-how-long-because-my-brain-shot-out-of-me-with-Carson, Tate completely surprised me for Christmas. Since I’m *trying* to be nice, I won’t link to any of the posts I’ve written about not surprisingly being, well, NOT surprised.

This whole being surprised thing is significant because really all I ever want for Christmas is TO BE SURPRISED. (And it certainly doesn’t hurt if the surprise is something I like. A LOT.)

Tate was even so thoughtful to give me one of my gifts early. Before our trip to the North Pole, he presented me with my first gift of the Christmas season.

“I thought you’d like to open this one early,” he said, carefully placing it into my open hands.

The small-ish, square-shaped box held inside the camera lens I’ve been desperately wanting.

With tears in my eyes he explained, “I knew you’d want to take pictures of the kids tonight, so I hope it’s alright that I’m giving it to you now.”

(So far, so good in the being nice to Tate on my blog, yes? It’s super simple when HE does nice things!)

For weeks Tate had been acting panicked about having NOTHING to give me. He really did have to work a ridiculous amount of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas and hadn’t spent any time actually shopping, so it wasn’t unreasonable to believe him. After he gave me the lens, he asked me if my feelings would be hurt if that was my only gift. Since I’m not poking fun at Tate today, I won’t divulge why he said the lens was my only gift.

So come Christmas morning I was pleasantly surprised to receive dangly handmade earrings (by a jewelry maker, not handmade by Tate), brand new running shoes, and the Les Halles Cookbook by Anthony Bourdain (my pretend celebrity boyfriend.)

One gift remained, purposely held back by Tate.

“Don’t open that one yet,” he placed it gingerly alongside the other three gifts. “This one is the big-hitter!” He beamed proudly from ear to ear as I tried to imagine what could be better than a new lens, shoes, earrings, and my food porn bible. I ran through the things that I’d been really wanting. “Could it be the external flash I’ve had my eye on? Or maybe a Mac laptop?!” Oh how my mind soared with the possibilities!

Eagerly, yet carefully I unwrapped the gift. I wanted to savor each moment leading up to the big hitter gift, knowing that it would be something I’d remember for years. And truly, it IS something I’ll always remember.

(Tate wanted to know WHY I asked him to take a picture of me in my Snuggie. “You’re going to mock me on your blog again, aren’t you?” My response, an indignant, “…!”

(Carson ADORES the pink Snuggie.)

In the interest of saying only nice things today, I’ll end with, Happy 35th Birthday, Tate! I’m proud to be your wife and love having the distinct honor of loving you and poking fun at you on the Internet.

After a brutally long eleven hour drive home, we pulled up to our much missed home to find it adorned with Christmas lights.  Two mini Christmas trees and a wreath adorned the front porch and door, welcoming us.

Inside, the house was clean and free of the usual toys and clutter.  On the kitchen counter sat a crystal vase that held wonderfully fragrant calla lilies.  The oven light revealed a rotisserie chicken and sweet potatoes, warmed and ready to be eaten.  After dinner, Tate dished us up chocolate chunk brownies that he had baked himself.

The dirty laundry had been washed and placed in drawers and closets.  The towels and sheets were fresh.  Groceries for the upcoming week had already been purchased and were even put away in the pantry and refrigerator.

It’s just a wild guess, but I think Tate might have missed us while we were gone.

I drove away from him with tears in my eyes.  Instead of spending Thanksgiving together as a family, Tate had to stay behind and work.  Hours were spent strategizing, trying to figure out a way for him to come with us, but with the weight of responsibility sitting firmly on his shoulders we knew that he had to stay behind.

It wasn’t the same eating and celebrating Thanksgiving without him.  We talked on the phone a few times during the day, but I missed his silliness, his love of Redi-Whip on pumpkin pie, arguing about the edibility of pecan pie, and him.

I woke up to his picture this morning, taken from high atop his deer stand, catching a few hours for himself before going back into work.   It made me miss him even more.

“Get over it,” I’ve been told.

The move.

“Just get over it,” said with their intended tone of irritation and impatience. As if unexpectedly moving my family should just be taken in stride. Like, oh! Just another life experience to welcome! Like, I don’t have a right to have feelings, very strong feelings, about being relocated a mere seven months after having just moved. I guess there’s a statute of limitations on the amount of time you have to get over entire life upheavals.

It’s been just over one year (a year and two days, but whose counting?) since finding out that we were being transferred to Tennessee and I am getting over it. Getting, but not yet over it. It’s a tall mountain.

This mountain I continue to climb hasn’t just been about the physical aspects of moving, the inconvenience, the starting over, the unknown, and the fear that comes with boxing your personal possessions and entrusting their care to someone you hope didn’t pal around with a criminal element. The place where I always get tripped up on my climb up this mountain was and continues to be about the feeling of finally being home where we were in Indiana. The sense that we lived in Lafayette, that our house was our house, our friends were our friends, our city was actually our city. A palpable sense of possession. It was that we felt like were finally someplace that was truly ours.

(And maybe I keep sliding down this mountain because of a smidge of pure unadulterated rage towards THE COMPANY.)

Crossing over the state line into Indiana, the day we moved there, was where for the first time in ten years that I let my guard down. I stopped looking over my shoulder after having run away for all those years from the monster of THE COMPANY with it’s sharp teeth and horrible breath snarling, “You. There. We’re moving your family.”

I feel that snarling monster’s breath on my neck everyday now, again, like I did for all the years leading up to our move to Indiana. I’m bitterly angry with THE COMPANY, but I’m even more angry with myself for having been naive enough to think that a company, whose first priority is to make money and make decisions best for themselves, would finally leave us the hell alone. THE COMPANY is a business plain and simple, I understand that, but I truly believed for those seven restful months in Indiana that we were safe.

I remember one night just a few days after learning about our move, lying in bed curled in a ball as my crying turned into sobbing. My sobs shook my entire body, I couldn’t even breathe and was covered in tears and snot. With my face in my hands, I kept repeating, “please don’t make us move, please don’t make us move, please.” Tate found me and pulled me into his warm chest and told me how sorry he was. I looked into his eyes and screamed through my tears how unfair it was that THE COMPANY was in control of our entire life. Helplessly, he held me and apologized over and over until I fell asleep in his arms.

I knew my tears were futile, I knew Tate and I had made the decision together to move, but I also knew that had we decided not to move, it would have brought Tate’s career to a screeching halt.

Every time I think about that night and my rage and despair, I cry.

The pain is not as acute as it was a year ago. As the months have passed, I’ve slowly climbed this mountain and have embraced my blessings. I’ve made friends here and am involved in lots of different things that keep the kids and I busy. Our home is beautiful, so beautiful that sometimes I can’t believe I live in it. Considering the economy, I’m thankful Tate even has a job and as a bonus, makes enough money which allows me to continue staying home with the kids. Tennessee itself is a wonderful, friendly place to live. I actually really like living here, a lot.

The move, though? I’m not over it yet. While I do live in the here and now, I know better now than to be naive enough to think that we’re actually here to stay.

Today Tate and I celebrate our eight 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.

My dress made me feel like a princess.  I wish I had a reason to wear it again.

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 still 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.

Originally published last year with seven memories, for our seventh anniversary.

Tate and I recently have a very serious discussion.

“You’re not going to sell that breast pump in the garage sale, are you?”  asked Tate.

“Well, yeah,”  I gave him the what-the-hell-do-you-mean look.  “I’m selling the baby stuff, I thought we decided we were for sure done having babies.  I thought that selling the baby stuff was the whole reason for having a garage sale.”  Again with the what-the-hell-do-you-mean look.

“I know, but…” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“If you want another baby, you better say so now because I’ve just priced 320 onesies.”

“No, no, it’s not that I want another baby, it’s just kinda sad to sell the breast pump.  And it was really expensive, what if we needed it someday?”

“Unless we have another baby, I don’t really think we are going to need a breast pump.  It’s not like I’m going to spontaneously start producing milk, you know.”

“But wouldn’t it be cool if you did?  Think of the money we’d save over all that organic milk we buy?”

“What?”  I shook my head in irritation.  “First, I’m not your own personal milk-producing cow and two, wouldn’t it be kinda weird to pour breast milk on your Cinnamon Life cereal everyday?”

“Oh, well. Yeah.  There’s that.”

End scene.

So this upcoming Saturday, we’re having a gigantic garage sale.  We’re selling almost all of our baby items, minus the breast pump, JUST IN CASE!

I’ve been feeling really melancholy, sorting and pricing my babies’ itty bitty pink and blue clothes and crib sheets, their baby bathtub and high chair.  It feels so…final.

Don’t get me wrong, Tate and I are both in agreement that we feel like our family is complete.  We’re a year away from EASILY being able to go to Disneyworld without having to plan around naps, for goodness sakes!  If we had another baby, we’re looking at three more years before we could do something like that.

There are a myriad of reasons that we’re done having babies besides vacationing.  We live in a 3 bedroom house, three kids means three cars, three college tuitions, another mouth to feed…

Of course, we’re not so sure that we’re Tate’s-getting-a-vasectomy-tomorrow! sure.   We’re merely selling a few easily replaceable baby items in a garage sale.  We could always change our minds.  And luckily we’ll already have that breast pump, you know, JUST IN CASE!