Today is Tate’s 25th* birthday! I know that people who have Christmas babies swear that they’ll always take care to separate Christmas from the birthday, present and attention wise. When I married Tate, I even told myself that I’d never fall into the habit of glossing over his birthday so close to Christmas, or tell him that his Christmas present was also his birthday gift.  Merry Christmas AND Happy Birthday!  Sorry I’m too cheap to get you another gift, sucker!

So here I sit feeling guilty this December 29th because the Christmas gift I bought for him also counts as his birthday gift. It was a really expensive gift, though, and my PayPal account is now empty. So…

I like for people to fuss over me on my birthday, make like it’s an important day. Maybe that makes me silly or childish, but I like feeling that I’m special to other people.

As much as I complain about my husband, he is a pretty good guy.  Actually, he’s a really good guy.  I wish that putting Christmas together didn’t overwhelm me, then drain me of my enthusiasm to celebrate.

I will make him carne asada for dinner and Ella is going to whip up a delicious Devil’s food whoopie pie with her Easy Bake Oven. He’ll open his card from me and maybe if I can convince the kids to sit down long enough, they’ll even draw him a picture or color something for him from their SpongeBob or My Little Pony coloring books.

Maybe his present could be that I won’t complain even once about what he chooses to watch on TV tonight.

Happy birthday, Tate. I’m sorry I stink at post-Christmas birthdays.

*He’s not really 25.  Let’s just pretend, okay?  It’s just that every year that HE gets older means that I also get older.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I cooked a bunny on Saturday for dinner.

Now that I’ve said it, I’m going to defend myself and say that it wasn’t a boiled bunny à la Fatal Attraction.  (Completely unrelated but super interesting sidenote:  On the day that I found out that I didn’t even make first cuts in 7th grade cheerleading tryouts, in other words, THE WORST DAY OF MY ADOLESCENT LIFE, my best friend, her mom, and I went to see Fatal Attraction in the theater.  Why we went to see this particular movie I don’t know, it certainly wasn’t a feel-good, pick me up sort of movie–unless you’re talking about the part where Michael Douglas picks up Glenn Close, uh, never mind.  I cannot imagine taking an adolescent child to see that movie, but I mostly turned out okay, I’m not scarred for life, though you could make a case against me now that I’ve admitted that I have indeed cooked a bunny.)

So, yes, I cooked a bunny.  It’s a long story leading up to the point where Tate brought home a bunny, “took care” of the bunny, and did other things to the bunny to make it into something that resembled normal, grocery store,  cook-able meat, but that long story isn’t nearly as interesting as the Fatal Attraction story above.  I really kept hoping that Tate would forget all about bringing home a bunny to eat, he’d been talking about it for months and MONTHS and forever.

“People eat rabbit, Jennifer.  This isn’t that weird,” Tate tried to convince me. Ooookay.

We were very secretive with the children about the whole cooking a bunny thing. I cooked a recipe from my Anthony Bourdain Les Halles Cookbook (affiliate link!).  The recipe is called Lapin Aux Olives, so we just told the kids we were eating “lapin.”  See, it turns out that Ella LOVES bunnies, she has a whole family of stuffed animal bunnies that she carries around in a box.  She treats these bunnies like real pets and has given them names, Baby Bunny, Baby Bunny, Baby Bunny, and Mommy Bunny.  It didn’t seem right to tell the children, “hey kids!  We’re eating bunny for dinner tonight!”  Talk about scarring a kid for life.

Ella was acting a bit like a FREAKING JERKAZOID that morning, so I had to put Baby Bunny (x3) and Mommy Bunny in time out.  I completely forgot about the bunnies and so did Ella until later that evening when she suddenly remembered and asked if she could have them back.   She carried her box of bunnies into the living room where in the adjoining kitchen, Tate was taking care of his box of bunnies.

As he did whatever he was doing with his bunnies, Tate overheard Ella talking to her bunnies.  “Baby Bunny!  You’re alive!  You’re alive!  I’m so happy you’re alive Baby Bunny!  I love you bunnies! I missed you so much!” Ella cheerfully loved on her returned bunnies.

Tate is convinced that I coached Ella to say this and prove my point that eating bunnies is weird, but I most certainly DID NO SUCH THING.  And just so you know, the bunny/lapin was actually not bad.  Kinda tasted like chicken.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Three day weekends seem to magnify these MAJOR EVENTS minor fights.   Stupid three day weekends and their empty promises of relaxation and family harmony.  Hmph.  As if.

We own a blue, heat resistant spatula that we always use to cook eggs.  My wonderful husband almost always cleans the kitchen after these special weekend breakfasts, which is, yes, wonderful.  Except that it’s not wonderful when I’m emptying the dishwasher later and find that the blue spatula is still covered in egg.  This has happened every time he’s been in charge of “cleaning” since we got the spatula as a wedding gift in 2001.  I’ve tried explaining (Tate would say nagging.  Potato, pot-ah-to) that the blue spatula must be free of all egg debris prior to it’s insertion in the dishwasher otherwise my head explodes and I become unable to fulfill my wifely duties.

There has been no change in his behavior.  I’m starting to think my tactic isn’t working.

Tate is addicted to soft beverages.  Every morning I find at least two empty cans of Pepsi One sitting suspiciously around the house.  It’s suspicious because I’ve told (nagged?) Tate that when he leaves his empties around the house for me to throw away, I feel like an unappreciated, yet well-trained monkey.  I’ve tried just leaving the soda cans out for him to throw away, but I just end up having twice as many to throw away the next morning.  Threats and passive aggressive text messages go ignored.

Whenever I get on my phone or on the computer, or if I’m immersed in a good book, I’ve been told that I completely block out everything around me.  According to Tate, I’m very good at appearing to listen, nodding, even responding appropriately.  I don’t even realize that we’ve had a conversation until later when Tate brings up something that we allegedly talked about.  (I swear this is entrapment!) The disagreement almost always turns into a full-on argument about the time I spend clicking away on my phone/computer and I get defensive and Tate gets all, “why are you so defensive,” and then I get all screamy about the importance of Words with Friends.

Every night after the kids are finally bathed, read to, tucked in, watered, supplied with specific, hard to find bedtime toys, kissed, kissed again, hugged, hugged again, Tate and I settle on the couch to battle over the remote control and television volume.  Whomever is in charge of the remote control seems to feel that the television show chosen is the only thing worth watching at that moment.  Honestly, neither of us is usually very willing to consider the other’s viewing interests.  I like to watch House Hunters at a nice, low volume.  Tate likes to watch Shoot Em’ Up gun shows at blaring levels.  I’m sure he’d say that I watch Crap and Drivel at ear deafening volumes, and that he watches Important Educational Shows about Home Defense at a comfortable volume.  (He’s completely wrong, but whatever.)

I’m looking forward to the day when I’ll laugh about how ridiculous these tiffs are, which will probably be when I’m old and rich enough after winning the lottery to afford someone to come in and clean up after Tate, and deaf enough not to care that Tate loves to watch the TV with the volume as high as it will go.

What ongoing fights do you have with your spouse/significant other/partner/[insert politically correct terminology here]?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I love my husband, but I really love when he goes on his hunting and gathering missions.   There was a time that I resented his trips, leaving me ALL ALONE with two small babies!  I’d stew the whole week he was gone in anger and bitterness, and when he finally returned I’d practically knock him over as I grabbed my purse and keys as I rushed out the door to my getaway vehicle.

Now that the kids are older and decidedly EASIER, it’s really not so bad for Tate to be gone for a week.

While he was gone, we ate Bagel Bites and Mac n’ Cheese for dinner.  (The Mac n’ Cheese was at least ORGANIC processed food.)  The dryer became my closet because I never bothered to put any laundry away.  Toys were strewn about the house.  We watched movies and ate popcorn almost every night.  After the kids went to bed I indulged in complete unadulterated laptop devotion.

Tate doesn’t expect that dinner should be served piping hot as soon as he walks in the door from work.  He doesn’t care if beds are made, if the house is tidy, or if the laundry is neatly folded and put away.  That’s just how we typically live.  It’s what I DO on a day to day basis.  Tate’s vacations are also my vacations.

By the final day, though, the wrinkled clothes, mess, and diet of processed foods have worn me thin.   Tate typically calls throughout the day as he drives the ten hours home, and I find myself actually excited about his return.   Also?  Slightly panicked.

“Carson!  Help!  We have to get this house cleaned up before your daddy returns!  It looks like a fraternity party gone bad in here!”  I yelp as I look around at all of the granola bar packages and empty soda cans.

“Mommy, what’s a fraternity party?”

“Never mind!  Just help me clean!”

All the toys somehow find their way back into the toyroom and their respective bins.  I turn on the dryer and pray for the wrinkles to be released, then quickly fold the laundry and put it in drawers.  The evidence of poor food choices are hidden at the bottom of the trash bin.  My legs are de-furred (*wink, wink*).

We stand at the door and wave as Daddy pulls into the driveway.  The children practically knock him over as they rush out the door to greet him.  Then we come inside and we all do a happy dance for his safe return.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

After searching high and low, Carson is now signed up for t-ball.

Several of the leagues I found online for four-year-old t-ball cost as much as $150.  One HUNDRED and fifty dollars.

I found leagues that talked about “drafts” and “practice” and “hitting coaches.”  Every child needed cleats and a uniform and a batting helmet.

My stomach burned nervously reading about these leagues.   Carson is four!  FOUR!  I just want him to have the opportunity to learn how to play and take turns and maybe get a trophy.

My neighbor told me about a local club that sponsors youth t-ball.  Thirty bucks is the fee, every child gets a t-shirt and a trophy.  Every child plays, they can wear whatever shoes they have.  When we signed up, a man with kind eyes said that the season is a success if every kid learns to at least knock the ball off the tee and if nobody gets hurt.  He smiled and told us that watching four-year-old’s play t-ball is just about the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, with every kid running for the ball, some kids running back into the stands to their parents after hitting, and the grass pickers in the outfield that watch the balls go right through their legs.

Games start in April.

**********

Tate shows wavering excitement about Carson starting t-ball.  Some days he’s patient with Carson, other days he forgets that he’s four-years-old and not yet Albert Pujols.

Carson also shows wavering excitement.  Some days he’s gung ho and wants to play.  Other days he stomps and throws the bat down when he doesn’t hit the ball as far as he’d like.   I act as referee and remind them both that we’re learning and just trying to have a good time.

For the past several weeks, Tate and his son go outside for a little t-ball practice, where I think they are both learning lessons about baseball.  But mostly I think they’re learning lessons about life.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I guess I’ve slacked in this area of husband training because somehow Tate didn’t realize that I had such strong feelings against restaurant peanut butter and jelly.  As he was reading the menu choices to the kids, I was trying to get his attention with lots of throat clearing, adamantly nodding my head “NOOOOO!”, and I was shooting lasers out of my eyes into his forehead.

Sadly, the children had peanut butter and jelly for dinner and I went home covered with little jelly handprints.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

As the minutes of the still night turned into hours of a panicked night, I grew angrier and angrier as Tate seemed to rest easily, completely unaware that there is even a crack in the State of our Marriage.  Maybe it didn’t even matter that he was sleeping.  Even when he’s awake I haven’t felt like we could really have a heart to heart conversation anyway.  I am continually on a quest to improve myself, as a mother and a wife, trying to figure out ways to hold my tongue and not break every marriage confrontation rule in the book.  And yet he slept, soundly and without worry while I carried the entire burden myself.

I always do.

***********

I woke up in a sleep deprived fog and mentally willed myself to put on a smiling face.  Carson was, of course, in his true form, mouthy and argumentative from the moment I whispered, “good morning my sunshine boy,” in his ear.

I read somewhere online about choosing a word to strive for as your goal for the year.  My word is calm.   As Carson’s protests continued, I kept repeating my mantra.  “Calm.  Calm.  Calm.  Calm.”

Humor sometimes helps to ease the mood and repair rifts that develop between Carson and I.  His humor can be as healing to me, even though it’s in no way his intent.

“My elbow hurts,” Carson whined, as he had whined about every single detail of the morning.

“Well you know what that means, don’t you?”  I inquired, as seriously as I could.  “It means that I’ll have to saw your arm off.”

Concerned, Carson protested.  “But then I won’t be able to hug you and daddy and Ella!”

I hugged him and told him that mommy was making a joke and just wanted him to laugh.

“But mommy, I can’t laugh.  I’m too tired.  And I’m thirsty.”  WHINE, WHINE, WHINE.

“What would you like to drink?  How about some beer?”  I jested, hoping he caught my joke.

“But MOM!  Only people who are OLD year-olds can drink beer!”  He giggled.  “Chocolate milk.  Please.”

Before we left for preschool drop off, I tried to get Carson to take some cough medicine.  He was not having any of it, claiming he didn’t need it.

“GOING TO BED IS ANOTHER WAY TO TREAT A COUGH!” he screamed at me as I chased him with the dose of medicine that eventually spilled all over me, Carson, and the floor.

***********

I wish I could say that the burdens and worries of the State of our Marriage and the lack of sleep and dealing with Carson’s four years of difficult behavior didn’t finally trigger my switch.

Calm?

Not this time.  I lost my cool.  I yelled, in a way that could not be described as calm or using humor to diffuse the anger.

Now I have even more to lose sleep over tonight.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

This particular day was Wednesday, though, and he was doing a lot of throat clearing and some ridiculously pitiful semi-moaning.  After hearing him not so quietly closing closet doors and not so quietly rooting through his sock drawer, I peeked my head out from under the covers and asked him through clenched teeth, “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m sick.  I feel terrible,”  he managed to say weakly.  Moan, moan, woe is me, woe is me, blah, blah, blah.

“Oh.  Sorry to hear that.  Feel better soon,”  I replied flatly.  I’m an asshole, okay?  I’m 50% of the reason that our marriage isn’t perfect.  (Tate is the other 50%, he is also an asshole.)

I closed my eyes and went back to sleep for the two minutes before my alarm sounded, got out of bed, and promptly forgot all about Tate’s complaint of being sick.

Now in all fairness, Tate can be a bit of a drama queen.  It gets particularly noticeable when he’s sick and I, being an asshole AND a very weary mother of two small children, don’t have a lot of patience for his whining and his needs.  He has a history of blowing little head colds and minor illnesses way out of proportion.

So I’d forgotten all about his “illness” until 5:00 when he called me from work to say, pitifully, that he was on his way home.   I realize that calling at 5:00 doesn’t seem particularly significant, but OH YOU WOULD BE WRONG.  Tate very rarely leaves work before 6:30 or 7, he might if it’s a Friday and things are running well, or he might if his family is coming into town, but he NEVER comes home early on a random Wednesday in the middle of the week.

I still wasn’t fully convinced that his illness was little more than a cough and a headache.  I quickly updated Twitter (because that’s what you do in times of fake crisis).

Further evidence for my assholishness.

When he got home, his face was grimaced and he sounded weak.   He slowly trudged to the bedroom and laid down on the bed.  I felt his head and he seemed to actually have a fever, a really high fever.

“I’ll try not to complain too much,” he said as I gave him his Advil and glass of water.

The next day he went to work, but at 1:00 (1:00!!??!!) he called and said that he was on his way home because he was just so sick.  He actually didn’t do his over the top, pitiful “Woe is me, I’m so sick” routine.  He just really sounded like he was actually SICK.

Never in 11 1/2 years of his working life, had he come home that early due to illness.  He immediately went to bed and slept for the whole afternoon.

I think that maybe, just maybe, Tate wasn’t exaggerating this time.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.