A Tantrum and a Dream

I felt like throwing a tantrum today--like burrying my face into a patch of grass while I wept and wailed and gnashed my teeth. I didn't, but I should have. I was seconds away from leaving for a girls night with my sister in law when I received a text reminding me about a meeting that I neglected to put on my schedule. Darn.

That was when I wished that I had developed sluffing skills while in school. But for some reason I have never been able to let myself off the hook. Maybe some day, but not today. Instead, I'll just imagine my little tantrum, paint a smile on my face and then be on my way to where I should be...dreaming of the day when I have the audacity to cut out on my own schedule. Wouldn't that feel nice? Especially if I kidnapped myself to go dancing with the husband. Oh, a girl can dream.

One Dozen Surprises

I’m not really sure if I like Valentines Day. Romance is mostly romantic when an unexpected gift or moment (planned by your partner) reveals how much he or she has been thinking about you…how excited he or she has been to surprise you with something they’ve been planning for weeks. Part of me is annoyed by V-day’s contrived expectation of obligatory romance. Another large part of me wonders all day long if the husband will “surprise” me with something sweet and special. I did end up liking this Valentines Day, but not because the husband surprised me with a dozen roses. The day gave me one dozen (mostly) sweet surprises instead:

Surprise #1: 50% off lowest marked clearance price at Smiths’ Market Place. I scored a couple of inexpensive jackets for the boys for Easter—a holiday I definitely like.

Surprise #2: The mechanic said that our car would only cost $230 to get it repaired rather than $750…I always had an itchy feeling that Big O was taking advantage of my mechanical ignorance.

Surprise #3: The custodial staff came by my apartment today to do my Spring Cleaning. Even though this surprise was planned, (they offer this service free-of-charge once every year to on-campus apartments) it never ceases to amaze me how incredible it feels to have someone else clean the bathroom for me.

Surprise #4: A couple of Atrain’s friends are allergic to peanut butter. I wish I would have packed a bigger variety of Valentines, rather than relying solely on the good-ole Reeses hearts to hand out to his neighbor friends. At least Atrain enjoyed devouring the left-overs.

Surprise #5: Atrain was deeply disappointed when the husband and I decided to get our chicken nachos via take-out from our favorite restaurant. He really wanted to go in.

Surprise #6: The Chick-fil-A that existed on our GPS by Fashion Place mall is now a jewelry store.

Surprise #7: There are too many McDonalds restaurants without play places. We drove by three of them on our quest for a family-friendly Valentines dining experience. Atrain knows how to say, “Let’s look a little harder.” I never thought I’d be so happy to see the golden arches on 2100 South.

Surprise #8: Jdog loves watching Atrain run like a crazy man around Mickey D’s.

Surprise #9: Little boys with long pony tails make great playmates.

Surprise #10: Atrain can hear me through the maze of plastic tunnels when I yell at him to come eat his happy meal.

Surprise #11: The husband did think about buying me a bouquet of flowers on his way home from the hospital, but decided against it because of the ridiculous price tag. On our student budget, I was just happy to hear that he thought about it.

Surprise #12: Cold, slightly rubbery chicken nachos still taste wonderful when eating them with the one you love.

Every Sunday

1.16.11

Every Sunday the hubby and I have the same conversation. It morphs here and there, incorporating bits and pieces of new information and experience, but we mostly reiterate thoughts and ideas we have always expressed about our careers and choices and the direction of our family. I love this conversation. Without explicitly making a list, we reaffirm our goals. Without a planned presentation, we share our love for our God. And, without breaking out the yearbook, I’m reminded of the young man I fell in love with a decade ago and the reasons he stole my heart.

Caring is Complicated

January 15, 2011

Today the husband recommended that I put a counter on The Puddle. I’ve considered it, but I sense a problem with this recommendation: counting would compel me to care, and caring makes things complicated. Take the first time I really cared about what someone (outside of my family) thought about me, for example. I was high school and I was completely smitten by a boy. He was smart, handsome, kind, cultured, confident, involved in every sport in every season and played every instrument in the orchestra (and a small ensemble of girls as well). But, since he was quite literally the Hercules of our high school class (and for other not-so-superficial reasons) I adored him. I was also completely in denial. Years passed. And then, for some fateful reason, I decided to take a risk and tell him. I thought about it for weeks, how and when exactly to say, “I like you.” This was a big deal. I had never said anything so loaded in my life. What if he didn’t like me too—what would that mean? I wasn’t pretty or smart or _(fill in the blank)_ enough? Or would it be the opposite—that I was too nice, too long or too _(take your pick)_? I was bound to be too much or not enough of something. But, somehow I mustered the courage to care enough that I was willing to take a risk and spill my gigantic bottle of beans, even if it meant spending the rest of my life all alone, cleaning up every last dirty, dejected one. One night when we walked me to my door I told him quickly and awkwardly, right then and there. It was so stupidly quick and awkward that I had to repeat myself. I waited for his response…forever. Then, just when I was about to bang my head against the front door and tell him to drive off and leave me on the porch to die, he smiled. And his sweet, crooked grin echoed my awkward confession. He liked me too—apparently a lot, because every year since then he’s been by my side, helping me clean up every last spilled bottle of beans. My Hercules.

Where was I? Oh yes: caring makes things complicated. Having a complicated life isn’t necessarily a bad thing. On the contrary, a complicated life can be the most fulfilling, if you treat it with care. In the case of the hubby, I’m glad that I cared enough to take that risk and consequently make my life more complex. I’m just not sure that I care enough about the number of people who step in my puddles to take the risk and count. After all, the only ones who really count are already reading.