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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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When you care enough to send the very best

Written on November 27, 2009 by Jennifer in marriage, Men?, NaBloPoMo, Pictures

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.

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Control issues? What control issues?

Written on November 18, 2009 by Jennifer in Men?, NaBloPoMo, Quirky Me

Since I had to take Ella to the ER on Monday morning, Tate was in charge of taking Carson to school.

I had very little time to explain how the morning should play out. Quickly I showed Tate what to fix Carson for lunch and what containers to pack them in and where the lunchbox could be found. I rattled off what time to wake him up, what he should wear (A JACKET!! TENNIS SHOES! NOT his Crocs!!), and how much milk to pour into his cup. As I was running out the door carrying Ella, I remembered that I hadn’t explained the rules of the drop off line, realizing I should have spent more time on this most important of school rituals versus how much milk to pour for Carson.

See here’s the thing about school drop off. There are rules, rules that are in place for a good reason. When everyone follows the rules, the line moves smoothly, the children (THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!) are safer, and _I_ am happier. Which is vitally important. Yes it is.

I get a bee in my bonnet nearly every Monday and Wednesday morning when I witness blatant disregard for these drop off rules which I KNOW were explained to every parent at orientation. These weasel parents try to cut in line, they park in the spots right beside the drop-off line when there are specially designated spots (who doesn’t like SPECIAL SPOTS??!!), and then they dangerously walk their kids between the cars in line. They are lucky I haven’t “accidentally” run them over.

So I tried to hit the high points of the most important rules for Tate so that he wouldn’t be the subject of a future blog post titled, “Weasel Parents named Tate who screw up in the drop off line.” He assured me that he understood.

“How did drop off go? Did you remember to unbuckle Carson before getting in line? Did he have his lunch box when he got out of the car? Did you FOLLOW THE RULES I LAID OUT FOR YOU?!” I calmly asked.

“Oh man. It was…not good,” I could hear the trepidation in his voice. “I drove up on the curb, other parents were flipping me the bird, I had to do a 180 right there in the drop off line. You are probably never going be able to show your face again up at the school,” it was evident that he was trying to suppress a laugh.

“So it went fine, didn’t it,” I asked.

“Of course it did,” Tate said, though I thought I heard him mutter at the end, “Control Freak.”

I probably deserved it.

(It took every ounce of self-control not to chastise Tate when I found out he sent fruit snacks (I KNOW! FRUIT SNACKS??) in Carson’s lunch. Those were not on the “approved items for lunch packing” list I rattled off to him that morning. He should know that I only allow the children to eat crap like that when nobody is looking, I send the healthy stuff to school.)

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Ella is doing much better, thanks to you all for your kind words, thoughts, and prayers here, on Facebook, and Flickr.

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Okay, fine, I know I’m being petty

Written on November 2, 2009 by Jennifer in Go Fly a Kite, hole-y matrimony, Men?, NaBloPoMo

I was home from the grocery store for less than an hour when I noticed Tate, his mouth stuffed full of newly purchased, thinly sliced ham.

“Tate, there better be enough of that ham left for the kids’ lunches this week,” I said in my well-practiced irritated voice.

His face registered shock and fear as both of our eyes looked down upon a nearly empty package of just purchased honey cured ham.

“TATE! I JUST bought that! It was supposed to last the WHOLE week!”

End scene.

Replace ham with any food that has been specially purchased for the children and has the potential to create MELTDOWNS! and HAVOC! if we were to run out. Despite my huffing and well-practiced irritated looks, Tate continues to leave ONE granola bar in the box, that of course I realize seconds after promising TWO children their own granola bar for snack. Or he’ll leave *just enough* orange juice for a flea. He’s even been known to eat the last two cheese sticks I’d promised our children for their snack.

“How was I supposed to know you were saving that?!” he’ll reply, while I stand behind him holding a fake knife, making stabbing motions.

Look. I know I’m being petty. Of course he has as much right as anyone in our family to eat. Poor wittle Tate, I don’t want him to go hungwy!

I just want him to be able to read my mind and realize that I have plans for certain foods and that his eating said foods will make me want rip out his toenails.

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It was like looking at a mom, or something.

Written on September 15, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Men?, Pictures

I recently mentioned my neighbor who doesn’t have anything covering her windows, allowing us lucky neighbors to peer inside. My husband Tate, who leaves for work ridiculously early in the morning when it’s still pitch black outside, has seen our neighbor naked twice.

“You saw her naked again!” I asked, both appalled and oddly intrigued.

“I couldn’t help it,” Tate reasoned. “Her light was on, it was dark outside, how could I not look? And there she was! Completely naked.”

“Welllll…,” Of course I had to pry for details. “Was she hot?”

“It was like looking at a mom, or something. It’s not like she was hot.” Tate said, his disgust apparent until he saw the look of shock on my face.

“Oh! Wait! That’s not what I meant…”

There are some things that just can’t be taken back.

For those of you reading and concerned about Tate’s well being, I’d like to assure you that he is still alive and with all of his parts intact. Barely.

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Who’s the superhero now, huh?

Written on September 9, 2009 by Jennifer in Happy Homemaking, Little Monkeys, Men?, Mommydom, Pictures

Tate became the Chosen Parent over Labor Day weekend. He introduced the concepts of “capes” and “superheroes” to Carson and Ella. Using the Thomas blanket and sheet from Carson’s bed, he tied them around the kids’ necks and helped them soar through the air.

If only doing laundry and cleaning the pee off of toilets could bring the accolades that playing superheroes brings.

Using my crafty prowess, I one upped Tate’s novice bedsheet capes and made, lovingly, with my own two hands, personalized capes for the children.

I think I may have regained their favor.

(This would be a good time to remind you that my children’s names aren’t really Carson and Ella, and that their superhero logos correspond to their real names.)

Recognize the black lining of Ella’s cape? Why that’s just a certain lining from an old bridesmaid’s dress of mine (that had been cleaned, don’t worry), repurposed as a cape! I made Carson’s cape from the skirt of a different old bridesmaid dress that had a barf-free history.

There were a few foils in my quest to out-do Tate and make capes. The trip to Joann Fabrics for pink, glittery material for Ella’s cape, well, let’s just not talk about it. It was an unpleasant and sweaty trip thanks to one little boy who will remain unnamed. (Carson) Then after spending an hour or so of cutting up the dresses and pinning the patterned pieces together, my sewing machine decided to crap out on me. “No stitches for you!” the sewing machine mocked. Three hours later, adjusting settings, sweating, cursing, and cleaning components of the sewing machine, it still wouldn’t sew.

Not wanting to disappoint the children, I luckily had some Stitch Witchery on hand and I taped and ironed the pieces together. Another three hours later and the capes were finally ready for Carson and Ella to save the world.

I found the superhero cape pattern at thelongthread.com. This would have been a very easy, quick project if, you know, I had a functioning sewing machine.

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I want to thank each of you for your incredibly humbling comments on my last post. I’m honored by your kind words and compliments. Perspective is something I often lose sight of, but what I need to remember is that I do write for me and for you, not “them.” I should stop allowing numbers or lack of recognition from people who don’t know me to a factor into my blogging mood. What I need is what I have, and that is you, my friends. Thank you.

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I may have a blog, but I’m not a doctor

Written on August 27, 2009 by Jennifer in Men?, Pictures

Ever since I’ve known Tate, he has been somewhat accident and injury prone. Back in the olden days when we were dating, he used to woo me with talk of concussions and broken pinkies he received playing intramural sports in college. He’d describe to me in detail the crab claw that lacerated his hand or the ladder and ice incident that left him with a head injury. That boy really knew the ins and outs of romance.

Very little has changed. Even now, it seems like at least weekly he’s complaining of some sort of ailment caused by a multitude of sources. Bugs fly smack dab into his eyeballs, leaving me to wonder if his eyelids need some sort of agility training. He’s always complaining of getting water in his ear, like just this past week when we were on vacation at the beach. Tate claims an old “rotater cuff injury” to get himself out of helping with housework and picking up socks off the floor.

A few weeks ago, he was playing soccer with some friends and severely twisted his ankle. At the time, he assured me he didn’t need to go to the emergency room. He tough man. He take pain like bear. He take pain reliever like junkie.

What I find most disturbing is his insistence on depending on me for medical advice.

“Jennifer. My ankle still really hurts. It feels like I the bones and ligaments are all loose inside, and now my leg is starting to hurt. Look at my ankle and my leg. Does it seem to bow out differently than my other leg?”

“Well, uh, I, uh…” I stammer, looking at what appears to be two symmetrical legs and one obviously screwed up, puffy, red ankle.

“Feel it. Can you feel how this ankle just doesn’t feel right, like the bones aren’t aligned or maybe they’re broken. What do you think? Is it broken? FEEL IT.” He looks at me with the trust and desperation in his eyes that should be reserved for a medical doctor with thirty years experience treating sprains, strains, and breaks.

“Tate, I don’t really think I’m qualified…..” I shrug my shoulders and shake my head and look at him like he’s lost his marbles.

“NO, right here, put your hand right here. Do you feel that? Does that feel broken? You feel that, right?” He is adamant, as if asking me four different ways will somehow morph me into an M.D.

Why can’t he just be normal and ask Dr. Google for advice? What is WRONG with him?

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