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When what I really want to do is just cry

Written on February 3, 2010 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Little Monkeys, Men?, Mommydom

I lay awake for hours last night, my stomach in knots, my head spinning, as I contemplated the State of our Marriage. Tate and I seem to drift further and further apart, both of us in the wrong. Or at least that’s what I should say on my blog since he’s not here to defend himself.

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.

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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.

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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.

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Patients and patience

Written on January 29, 2010 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Men?

Tate woke up at his usual time to leave for work the other day. Usually he’s quiet and respectful of my beauty sleep, unless he knows it’s Tuesday and that we usually don’t get out of bed until 8:30. Then he’s loud and does the whole slamming doors shut and turning on lights while pretending he can’t find his boxer shorts.

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.

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Practicing restraint and kindness. I’ve possibly overexerted myself.

Written on December 29, 2009 by Jennifer in Lucky Me, marriage, Men?

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.

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You might be able to get this express shipped, but only if you’re really, really lucky

Written on December 22, 2009 by Jennifer in Extended Fam, Huh?, Men?, Pictures

I suppose only hunters and spouses of hunters can truly appreciate giving a loved one fox urine for Christmas.

This gift made Tate disturbingly excited. Apparently it’s very difficult to find and “thanks” to his mom and dad’s Christmas shopping diligence, he now is the proud owner of fox urine.

So I guess in this case it’s appropriate to say, “Merry Pissmas?”

If you’re getting desperate and need to buy some super fab gifts for the hunter in your life (and they’re already lucky enough to own their own bottled fox pee), do I have some ideas for you!

Hoo-ahhs and Monkey Butt Powder, or The Butt-Out Tool.

(You can thank me later. *wink*)

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Shop now!

Get yer fox urine right here! (Not SO hard to find…)

Nothing says I love you like a good wipe. Buy them Hoo-Ahhs!

Anti Monkey Butt Powder, for those loved ones with itchy, monkey-like asses!

Buy the much coveted Butt-Out tool here!

Full disclosure…these wonderful products are linked via my Amazon affiliate account. If I sell enough of these fabulous treasures, I’ll have enough money in six or seven years to buy a can of pinto beans. Thank you!

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Surprise grapefruit

Written on December 15, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Little Monkeys, Men?, Quirky Me

Tate came home, vibrating with excitement.

“Hey kids! I got you a surprise for your breakfast tomorrow! Grapefruit!”

Grapefruit. (Imagine I’m saying that like Seinfeld used to say, “Newman.”)

“And how is it a surprise, ding dong, if you just told them about it?” I said this to myself, I’m not the type to have silly arguments with my husband.

(On a side note, he paid $40 for these surprise grapefruit. One of his coworker’s daughters was selling them as a fundraiser for her high school. I just have to say that had _I_ brought home a surprise $40 box of grapefruit, Tate would have thought I was nuts. Now, if I had bought $40 worth of Girl Scout Cookies (two boxes), he’d have jumped for joy! We didn’t even get ONE box of Girl Scout Cookies this year because when I tried to buy Samoas from the cute little chirping Girl Scouts at the Kroger, they were OUT. Frankly if I can’t have Samoas, I’ll just do without Girl Scout Cookies for the year.)

So where was I? Oh right! Grapefruit. (Newman.)

Of course, since Tate had mentioned this magical, surprise grapefruit right before Carson went to bed, there he stood at 7 AM at the side of my bed.

“G’morning, Mommy! I’ve been thinking about eating that special surprise grapefruit! Get up! Carson said, bounding out of my room and down the stairs. “I’ll go wake up Ella so we can eat!”

There’s a few things that could potentially go wrong with this whole surprise grapefruit scenarino, besides the fact that we are having to get up unnecessarily early. 1) I’m not sure that Carson or Ella really knows what grapefruit is. They could be thinking it’s a “grape”-like fruit and will be undesirably shocked to see that it’s a giant orange. And 2) I’m not so sure that my two children’s palates are sophisticated enough for grapefruit.

This was a (possible) giant fiasco just waiting to happen. “Thanks, TATE.” I thought to myself. “So glad you’re at work and are going to miss out on their ‘surprise’.”

I was torn as to whether I should try to make this a learning opportunity or just be nonchalant about it. I mean, if I made an even bigger deal out of these surprise grapefruits, I could pay dearly with my sanity. But maybe the educational lesson could be just the diversion enough to make the surprise grapefruits less of a disappointment.

Because I’m a pretty awesome mom and overall human being, I decided to go the educational route. We studied the no longer surprise grapefruit, inside and out. We talked about how they could roll, how they look a lot like oranges, how they have seeds, and how MUCH THEY WERE GOING TO LOVE EATING THEM.

My wager paid off, they did love eating them. They also loved the grapefruit juice that I squeezed fresh for them. (See? Pretty awesome mom and overall human being.) Tate is off the hook, for now. Well, at least until next week, when I’m sick of segmenting grapefruit and hand squeezing their juice.

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My son, the teenager. Or man. Not sure there’s really a difference.

Written on December 11, 2009 by Jennifer in blog nosh, Little Monkeys, Men?

Both kids were safely buckled into their seats as we drove away from Carson’s preschool.

“So! How was your day, Carson?” I asked, as I ask everyday when I pick him up from school. I already knew the answer.

With major huffing and puffing, Carson replied, “I don’t want to talk about it! Stop asking!”

This has become his standard reply. Occasionally I’ll get a noncommittal affirmation that he had a good day or that he played with his best friend, Mary Grace, “on the monkey bars,” like, DUH MOM. At first I was concerned and would press for further details. “Did something happen?!” I’d ask, being careful not to say,”‘did anything BAD happen,” fearing that I’d give him the idea that if something had indeed happened, that it was somehow bad and that he’d possibly become the school hating Carson from the years before.

Though I’m not certain, I’m pretty sure nothing has happened, in fact I think he really loves school. He’s just choosing to be noncommunicative, like a teenager or man. (I’m not sure there’s really a difference.) Carson would just rather not talk about his day at school and it annoys him beyond belief that I’d ask, day after day.

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When Tate and I first met, he used to spend an inordinate amount of time quoting movies. I think it’s a standard mating ritual for males, trying to show their potential mate their incredible comic and memorization abilities.

I heard lines from Caddyshack, Fletch, and Spies Like Us nearly as often as I heard, “hey baby, wanna make out!?”

“One mocks what one does not understand,” was AND STILL IS (help me) one of Tate’s most favorite movie quotes. (Spies Like Us.)

Lucky for me (not), Carson has started quoting movies and expects great laughs each time.

“How about some delicious, hot schmoes! [dramatic pause] They’re s’mores, Buzz,” he’ll say, looking expectantly at me, hoping I’ll be as impressed as he is with himself. (Toy Story 2)

If that one doesn’t get the laughs he was expecting, he moves onto the movie Cars. “GOOD-BYE!! Okay, I’m good,” and on cue I laugh and laugh, heartily and artificially.

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So let me see if I understand. The only way I’m going to get Carson to communicate with me for the next twenty or so years is through movie quotes?

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I just wanted to remind you all about the blog carnival going on over at Blog Nosh Magazine that’s sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope. The carnival is a great way to support this worthy cause AND it’s a great idea for participating in this blog community while generating a little traffic for your blog. {hint, hint} Three posts participating in the carnival will be chosen to be featured on Blog Nosh Magazine!

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Perhaps I should leave for extended periods more often

Written on November 30, 2009 by Jennifer in Lucky Me, marriage, Men?, NaBloPoMo

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.

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