A few weeks ago, during my search for new bedding, I posted a picture of the two I liked most, to see which one you guys liked most.

Which, come to think of it, is a little weird, considering most of you will never be in my bed. I know. Bummer.

I was partial to the top set from the start, but slightly apprehensive fearing that my husband wouldn’t dig the colors.

Of course, it wasn’t the husband I feared, but the conversation it would sprout.

You know…

Him: Honey, why the hell did you buy us purple bedding?

Me: Oh my god, this is SO not purple. What are you? Colorblind? It’s orchid. Jesus.

And, well, fuck if I wanna go down that spousal street, I have stupid shit to tweet. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Anyway, I held my breath and pulled the trigger on the purple orchid set.

It finally arrived this week.

As I opened the box, I said, “I hope you think the colors are manly enough, babe.”

He laughed, “As long as it’s not, like, dark purple. Ha!”

Oh my god. This is SO not dark purple. What are you? Colorblind? It’s Orchid and Aubergine, both of which are lovely colors. 

At least my dogs like it (yes, there are two dogs in that picture).

It was nine years ago.

My husband (then-boyfriend) and I were on vacation in San Miguel de Allende, along with his sisters and their spouses.

Our last night there, we headed out for a late dinner at the most romantic restaurant in the city. Seated around a large table, we were perched perfectly on the roof-top and under the stars.

We’d only been dating for a year, but I already knew that, if he let me, I’d love him forever.

With a quick glance, it was easy to spot the unmarried couple of the bunch. We couldn’t keep our eyes (or hands) off of each other, and I’m shocked no one suggested we get a god damn room.

Someone at our table laughed loudly and told us, “Oh, I remember when we used to be all over each other like that. My how things change after you get married.”

I blushed, and thought to myself…

Yeah right. Things will never change for us. Impossible. We’ll always feel this magic and these butterflies – no matter what.

* * *

A couple of months ago, we were out with a newly engaged couple.

It had been almost ten years since the night I ate chips and guacamole, and humped my husband’s leg under the stars.

Seven years married, we were now the ones sitting at the other side of the table.

A smile crept up on my face and, leaning in, I whispered to my husband, “Oh, I remember when we used to be all over each other like that. My how things change after you get married.”

* * *

March 11th made it official. We finally made it over that seven year hump everyone talks about. You know, the itch.

And, seriously, you guys, it’s been so easy!

You know, in a walking barefoot over open flames and rusty nails kind of way.

Because, here’s the thing.

Getting married?

That was easy.

But, being married?

That’s hard as shit.

Despite all that I was told, marriage is so much harder than I ever imagined it would be.

And, I say this as someone who is married to, and in love with, their best friend.

But, trust me on this, no amount of love can safeguard a marriage from its struggles, hardships, and low-points.

Because, for most of us, there will come a time when…

You love each other, but you don’t like each other.

You get bored.

You feel like roommates rather than a married couple.

Your heart aches for those feelings and flutters that come with first getting to know someone, and falling in love.

There are times when you’ll simply coexist. You’ll pass one another all day long, quickly running by to grab a diaper or prepare a bottle, without so much as a single touch.

You’ll mourn the freedom and ease that came with your independence.

You’ll become annoyed at things you once found OMG SO ADORABLE!

You’ll resent their opinions, views, and values when they collide with your own; You’ll take it personal.

You’ll take everything personal.

You will take each other for granted.

And, while these things aren’t always toxic in themselves, if left unsaid, they become straight-up poison.

Small things fester and turn into big, scary monsters.

The things left unsaid will simmer inside of you until, inevitably, the pot boils over and one of you finally explodes, and screams, “I just can’t do this anymore!”

And, this is the moment when you’ll finally hear all of the things left unsaid…it’s when you’ll start to listen.

Everything around you will stop.

You’ll pull back the rug and, one by one, sort through all that’s been swept underneath it.

You’ll look at what you have and all that you’ve built together, and you’ll try to envision your life without it, only to discover that the thought alone is too much to bear.

And then you’ll frantically search for the reset button, pushing it over and over and over again, like an elevator that’s gotten stuck.

After the feelings have been cleaned and gently put back together, you’ll discover that the butterflies never went anywhere, you were just unable to hear the flutter of their wings because of all the noise.

So, yes, marriage is hard.

But, if you’re lucky, it’s the best kind of hard.

I’ve learned so much about my husband these past seven years. And, I’ve learned just as much about myself.

Through his eyes, I’ve seen how defensive I am at times. I’ve learned how quick my temper is, and how completely irrational I can be when it comes to having serious discussions in which our opinions differ.

I take it personal.

But, I’ve come to recognize that most of these reactions stem from my insecurities. My anger usually has nothing to do with him. The issues, deep-seated, are mine and mine alone, and I’ve carried them with me long before I walked into this marriage.

(And, yes, of course he has his own issues, but that part of the story is not mine to tell.)

I feel like there’s definitely something to the seven year mark. It’s like I’m just now learning how to be married. Or, maybe, I’m just now learning how to be an adult in the good times and the bad.

During arguments in our early days, I would cry and shout, “You don’t care about anything I say. You never listen to me. I feel so alone!” And, after a couple of fuck yous, I’d stomp away, making sure to slam a few doors on the way out.

Finally, some years in, I took a long look in the mirror and realized that I hadn’t been listening to him either. I was so busy talking about myself and where I was coming from, that I never even bothered to ask where he was coming from.

It’s such a funny and odd thing we humans do – always shitting on the person that we love the most. We shout things at them we wouldn’t dare say to anyone else…only because anyone else wouldn’t stand for it. Anyone else might hate us if we showed them who we really are…if we showed them all of us.

Like, when I was pregnant with Leo, desperately clinging to my sanity, I got right up in my husband’s face and yelled, “I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.”

I know.

That’s an awful thing to say to anyone, and the worst kind of awful when it’s to the person you love the most.

Months later, when I was me again, the first thing I did was apologize for that awful outburst.

Babe, you know that I don’t really wish you were dead, right? Like, not at all. It was really me that I wanted dead. And I needed a punching bag, only one that would still love me after I punched it. I’m so sorry I went psycho on your ass.

When I sat down to write our anniversary post, I pictured it being all romantic, full of sweet and schmoopy words.

It was in that moment that I saw the big picture – when I saw the fact that, while I treasure the good times so much, it really is the hard times that have made us as strong as we are today.

I have shown him all of my cards.

Funny, loving, ugly, and hateful, he’s seen the whole deck…and he’s still here…loving and accepting all of me one day at a time.

And, to me, that is more romantic than anything.

Happy Anniversary to you, my sweet husband.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and there’s no one else I’d rather walk barefoot with…over open flames and rusty nails.

I am the most hormonal person on Earth.

Just ask my husband.

(But, for his safety, not while I’m PMSing.)

My hormones dictate everything.

My reaction to things.

My coping skills.

My dietary choices.

My energy.

My parenting.

My intelligence.

My confidence.

My wife skills. I mean, skillz.

EVERYTHING.

Depending on where I am in my cycle, I either love myself, feel meh about myself, or loathe myself.

One week, I’ll feel like the most capable, funny, and skillful writer ever. I feel like my words are meaningful, and add something positive to the world.

But, once PMS kicks in it’s the polar opposite. Rather than funny, witty, or skillful, I feel completely incapable, like my words might actually make someone dumber just by reading them.

Wait. What’s that? You need a visual?

That’s funny, because I happen to have some.

This is an average month for me, depicting how hormones affect every facet of my life. The red indicates the most dangerous time of the month for myself, and those in my immediate vicinity.

For example, let’s take a look at the same scenario – my husband eating my last burrito without asking – at two different times of the month.

Days 6-20, when I’m feeling my best…

Days 25-31, in the throes of PMS…

And, while my husband has learned to identify the danger signs, and has become quite adept at navigating the minefield known as me, others have not.

So, a word to the wise – if you have even the slightest suspicion that I might be under the influence of hormones, please tread lightly.

And, whatever you do, do not eat my fucking burrito.

graphs – graphjam.com
comics – ragebuilder.com

A conversation with Luca, 4.

Luca: Mommy, I don’t like this painting.

Why, honey?

Luca: Because the faces are ugly and they scare me.

Hmm… but, you know the way someone looks has nothing to do with the kind of person they are, right? There are people that others have decided are pretty on the outside, but on the inside they are ugly. And, other people that have been labeled as ugly, who have insides more beautiful than you can imagine.

Do you understand this, buddy?

Buddy…

Luca?

LUCA!

Are you listening to anything I’m saying?

Luca: No.

Gah. Well, I was just explaining that you can’t know what kind of person someone is simply by the way they look. There’s this saying, sweetheart, “Never judge a book by it’s cover.” Do you understand what that means?

Luca: Mommy, I’m still not listening. Can you just stop saying all those words?

End scene.

* * *

I live in a house with three pairs of testicles.

If you suck at math like I do, what I’m saying is that I live with five males – three of the human variety and two of the fur.

The two male dogs used to have testicles, but they don’t anymore, so the math can be confusing.

Anyway, the only other girl in our house is my dog Chelsea (Chi-Chi Boom Boom is her street name).

Chi-Chi is the best listener, but she sort of clams up when it comes to dishing advice. Also, it’s hard for us to share clothes, and especially shoes, because she’s always like, “Mama, I need two more heels to complete my outfit.” LIKE IT’S SOMEHOW MY FAULT SHE HAS TWO MORE FEET THAN I DO.

Anyway, back to my testicles…

My first born, Luca, got most of my personality, bless his heart. But, there is one thing he did get from his dad – the inability to hear any of the words that come out of my mouth.

I mean, I could go on and on to my husband, confessing to him that I’m really a Russian spy hooker, and he’d stare back at me and maybe blink once or twice.

Same with my oldest son, minus the Russian spy hooker part, because he’s far too young to know every single detail about his mommy.

Finally, there’s my youngest, Leo, who’s only one and has yet to get a grip on anything in life besides his penis.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being the mom of boys. But, despite how much I love hearing myself talk, there are times I crave actual back and forth conversations.

So, I finally reached my tipping point of the month, last night.

I was going on and on about something super important! to my husband, while he was making a salad.

He was replying with the obligatory grunts and nods, but I could tell he wasn’t really giving my butt-boil the attention it deserved.

So, I blew up…all over him.

You know what? Sometimes, like RIGHT NOW, I imagine that the old lady who narrates Caillou…narrates your life, too.

“He really wanted her to shut the fuck up, he just didn’t know how to tell her, so he thought it was best to keep slicing the cucumber and smiling.”

After cocking his head back and forth, like a dog who doesn’t speak English, he said, “Babe, I’m sorry, it’s just that Luca’s right about all those words. You say a lot of them…and I love that…but, sometimes I just have a hard time keeping up.”

(Not to be confused with a hard time keeping it up – I thought I should add this on his behalf, since I’m no longer angry at him.)

A lot of words?? A LOT OF WORDS! I’ll show you a lot of words. Wait, you know what? Never mind. Whatever. I have work to do and also I’m not even hungry for a stupid salad. And, in case you care, my boil is the size of a dime and I may need to have my right buttock amputated. So, just prepare yourself for the possibility of lopsided doggy-style sex for the rest of your life, okay?

“What, babe?”

Exactly!

So, I’ve been struggling with something for a few months now.

Something that’s been weighing on me… heavily.

I…have adult forehead acne.

Dun dun duuuuuuun.

It’s not too terrible, just little bumps that pop up and go away.

But, still.

Anyway, last night before crawling into bed, I slathered some super duper magic pimple paste all across my forehead.

Spoiler: The magic part is that it turns white to signal that it’s working.

DIE PIMPLES DIE!

The less magical part is that it doesn’t actually work.

Yet, I still slather like a motherfucker.

Anyway, like an hour later, my husband walked in the room.

I was sprawled out in bed, watching dumb shit on TV, when he looked at me and said, “You’re looking super sexy, mama!”

And I was all…

Who me?

And he was all…

Yeah, you.

I sat up a little straighter, shoving a pillow under my boobs for lift, and said, “Thanks!”

He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it before anything came out.

About ten minutes later, I got up to pee.

And, that’s when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I walked back out, wrath written all over my forehead in neon-white, scowly wrinkles.

Hey, asshole, thanks for making fun of me. I thought you were serious.

Him: “Well, I was about to point out the situation on your forehead and then…”

And then you realized you would just go with it because maybe it would get you laid?

Him: “Yep. Pretty much.”

I married a smart man, you guys.

(A smart man who did not get laid.)

My original intention was to write an informative piece, explaining things women do that drive men crazy, outside of the bedroom, and why they do them, so I sounded an alarm and asked my male peers to give me the inside scoop.

And as the rants came pouring in, I became defensive, something that drives my own husband crazy. Inevitably, things took a turn in a new direction.

Man Rant #1: “Why do you leave hair everywhere, the floor, the bathtub, the sink?”

Pot meet kettle. Or, rather, gross male pubic hair meet lustrous female head hair. Men shed just as much as women do, we just happen to have a lot more hair. And male shedding is way worse, because, for some reason, an absurd amount comes from their nether regions. Pubes on the bathmat, pubes in the shower, pubes on the floor…what are you guys doing in there? Wait, don’t answer that. Besides, we usually end up cleaning the bathroom, anyway. So, until men are the ones with the rubber gloves and sponge in hand, they should just keep telling us how pretty our hair is, be it on our heads, or in the drain.

Man Rant #2: “Why is her car so disorganized and dirty?”

I get this from my husband all the time, and here’s the thing. In my house, I’m the one chauffeuring around sticky, little, Cheerio-addicted humans, who have bodily explosions in their car seats. So, until his briefcase starts asking him “why” 400 times a day, while picking its nose and wiping the winner on his seat, a simple thank you will do. Or better yet, wash my car for me.

Man Rant #3: “Why can’t she pass by a pharmacy without wanting to go in?”

Good question, and one that hits home for me. If I were to tally up all I’ve spent at Walgreen’s, you’d likely find me curled up in a tight ball on my shower floor, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. So, why do I do it? Because it’s convenient. With two kids in tow, it’s a lot easier to lug them into Walgreen’s or CVS, than it is a grocery store. At the end of the day, it’s usually all I can manage. Plus, it’s like a wonderland of mascara, gloss, tampons, diapers, trashy magazines, and assorted yeast infection treatments. Sure it’s a ripoff, but the ease factor is sometimes worth the 100% markup on hotdog wiener emergencies. So, either start doing all the shopping, and buying us the right brand and absorbancy of tampons, or politely nod and pull over when we pass a pharmacy.

Man Rant #4: “Stop looking on my face for a blackhead to squeeze.”

Stop grabbing our boobs when we change in front of you.

Also, my husband has this strange mutant hair on his right eyebrow. Every few weeks, when it grows out, it’s like a third party’s in the room with us. It’s so distracting, and honestly, I just don’t trust it. When he’s in mid-sentence, I’ll quickly grab hold, and violently pluck it from his tender brow. After shrieking like a little girl, he typically yells at me. And, if I fail to remove it on the first try, he’ll usually refuse to let me have a do over. “Fine,” I’ll say, “Go to the meeting with your 12-inch eyebrow hair. I’m sure no one will focus on it, or try to braid it. Freak.”

This tactic earns me a minimum of three more attempts, to painfully rip the rebel hair from its brow.

My point is, that men are great at a lot of things, maybe even better than us in certain areas. But, hygiene, pimple maintenance, and hair removal aren’t of one of them. So, either confidently walk into that meeting, and introduce the dread lock protruding from your left nostril, or suck it up and relent to our obsessive skin-picking ways.

Man Rant #5: “Why do I have to say “I’m sorry” over and over again when I do something wrong. Isn’t once enough?”

That’s fair. Women can sometimes hold onto things for too long, and I’ve been known to hang on to grudges with a death-grip. It’s not that we don’t forgive you when you mess up, it just may take some time for our minds to tell our hearts that we’re done with it. And, even after we forgive you, maybe we’re still baffled, wondering how the hell you could have done whatever it is you did. We love hard, fight hard, and feel hard. But, at the end of the day, isn’t that one of the things you love about us? Especially when we’re in your corner.

Man Rant #6: “Women need to learn how to share the road.”

Yawn. Next question, please.

Man Rant #7: “Why do women never give a straight answer, always making us guess what’s on your mind?”

Speaking only for myself, there are a couple of reasons I’ll not so gracefully dance around an issue. Maybe I’m pissed off that he’s even had to ask something…He should know me better after all these years! And, I’ll somewhat shamefully confess, that in the beginning of our relationship I just wanted him to like me. I mean, did he really believe I was that into a football? Other times, it’s that trusty defense mechanism I tend to fall back on, that causes me to wonder if I’m overreacting, or being too sensitive.

And, sometimes, I just like to see him squirm.

Man Rant #8: “When women don’t want to have sex because they’re not comfortable with their body. Trust me, we don’t care.”

You say you don’t care, and that’s sweet. But, when you tell us the most perfect girl on the planet is Alessandra Ambrosio, while we’re leaking breast-milk and greasing up our stretch marks, it plants tiny seeds of doubt. For so many of us, our bodies have changed. They’ve carried and nursed babies, fluctuated, or experienced gravity in all the wrong places. Things that were once tight, now jiggle. And we pee when we sneeze. Honestly, I feel vulnerable enough when I’m by myself, standing naked in front of my bathroom mirror. Throw in a naked man, awkward positions, and really odd noises, and the self-doubt can rear it’s ugly head…making me feel ugly. So, just keep on telling us that we’re beautiful. One day we’ll see what you do.

Also, see here.

Man Rant #9: “Why are they always on their cell phones?”

Why are you always looking over our heads to check the score?

Finally, the one question that blew up my inbox.

Man Rant #10: “Why are women so passive aggressive?”

I’ll answer this with the words of a separate man-rant I received, wondering why women always asked rhetorical questions…

“Question from my wife:  Have you taken the trash out?

How I want to answer: You know goddamn well I haven’t taken the trash out. And no, I don’t feel like doing it now, I’ll take care of it later.

How I answer:  No, sorry…  I’m on it.”

You mean passive aggressive like that?

Passive-aggressiveness is, no doubt, a toxic way of communicating with your partner. But, come on, it’s far from being exclusive to the female population. Both sexes are mighty skillful at playing that game.

Anything I’m missing, ladies?

I’ll admit it.

(But, I’ll probably get defensive about it later.)

I can be a huge baby when my husband and I get into a fight. I am well aware of this and, yet, time and again, I resort to acting like an infant when I am hurt or angry with him.  Even when its my fault.

Actually, especially when it’s my fault.

During an argument, it’s very hard for me to keep my cool and talk things out like an adult.  My emotions get the better of me, my anger rises to the surface, and I explode. I’m a total hothead.

My husband, on the other hand, is the opposite. He shuts down and doesn’t say much, not wanting to deal with the particular marital spat de jour. This only adds fuel to my fire.

The longer he stays quiet or doesn’t engage me, the more annoyed I become. The more annoyed I become, the sharper my tongue gets and the more insults I hurl at him. Insults that I never mean; I am only saying them to be mean. And I say these things to hurt him, because I am hurting or upset or just annoyed.

And 12 years old, apparently.

I hate how defensive I can be at times. It’s such a terrible feeling, ranking right up there with jealousy. It eats away at me and serves no purpose.

And, still, I go there.

For example, I once got upset when my husband confessed he thought my favorite nachos from a certain restaurant were gross.

I immediately got all huffy and puffy and what do you know?!?!? on his ass.

Why? I have no idea.

He was not saying I was gross. I am not the nacho. I didn’t even make the nachos. But, there I went, getting all sensitive and defensive about the damn nachos.

I’m not even sure where I learned to fight like this.

But, I know I need to unlearn it.

Because answering, “Hey, can you turn the television down? It’s a little loud.” with, “So, what are you saying? That you think I look fat and my face annoys you?” is not working for me or for my relationship.

So, lately, I’ve been trying my best to argue like an adult and to fight fairly. And to stop taking things so personally. I’ve got to realize that it’s not an attack on me simply because my husband doesn’t like something that I like, or because his opinion is different than mine.

Maybe I need to come up with a mantra to calm me down when I’m about to overreact.

I am not the nacho.

Perfect.

How do you fight with your partner?

My kid started school a couple of weeks ago. Same Montessori school where I taught before I had Luca. You know, around the same time I used to shower and leave my house. Adventurous stuff like that.

The super skinny nice room parent sent me a super nice email welcoming me to the class and asking me if I had any questions.

I was about to reply back to her, something like, “Thanks so much! I used to work there. In the room next door.”

And then I stopped myself. Why not just tell her thanks so much!, and leave it at that?

Then I was all, “Why are you such a passive aggressive little bitch, Allison?

And then I was like,”Why are you attacking me again, me?”

AAAAAnyways.

I began to tell my husband this story last week over our anniversary dinner. Mid-way through,  he was all, “It’s because you’re a one-upper, babe.”

I saw him try and back peddle a little and then I saw him remember that it was my lady time of the month.

Confident that there would be no tapping of anyone’s ass,  he took a bite of steak and said it again. “You’re a one upper, babe.”

And of course I was all, “Hold the goddamn phone just a goddamn minute there, mister!” And just as I was about to argue with him it hit me…

Holy Fuck.

I am a one-upper!

Husband: Yeah, don’t you remember when we first starting dating? I would crack my back and you would try and crack yours louder right away? REMEMBER?!

Me: That’s what you are basing this name calling opinion on? I already told you that I would only crack my back because I saw you do it and it reminded me that I wanted to do it. GAH! Why are you being so mean to me?! It’s our anniversary. Do I look fat? It’s our anniversary. Whatever. I’m not even hungry. I wanna go home.

But, alas, this isn’t the first time I have thought this about myself. I’ve just never asked myself why.

Please let me explain, before you get all, “Why are you such an uppity whore?” on me.

It’s not like this:

Lesser person: I shit silver.

Me: I shit gold.

It’s more like this:

Other person: I shit silver.

Me: Oh. my.  Gawwwwd! I shit silver, toooooo! Weird! * high five *

I think, or at least hope, that we all have a tendency to do this at times. Cut people off because we are so anxious to talk about ourselves.

Not in a narcissistic way, necessarily.  More in the hopes of gaining someone’s approval and/or  friendship, by showing them our common ground. That we can identify with them. Empathize.

I get pretty nervous when I meet someone. I talk a huge game, and I have all these glorious, witty things I am going to say!

But, when the moment comes?

I. Got. Nothing.

My mouth gets dry. I talk A LOT of miles per hour about nothing. And I laugh loud and weird. My hair, that was perfectly blown out five minutes before, even starts looking like shit.  Sometimes I look fatter, too. And why in the hell did I pick this outfit? I can’t pull this look off!

It’s all of these insecurities quirks that lead to my occasional one-uppedness and tendency to talk too much.

* Sigh *

Don’t get me wrong, I think I am a great listener. You can come cry on my couch anytime. I love my friends and I am always there for them.

But, I need to listen more often in everyday situations.

I need to start hearing someone when we meet and they tell me their name. Instead of thinking of myself and what I am going to say next.

Because it’s true.

You wouldn’t worry so much about what others thought of you, if you knew how seldom they did.

Crap.  I think I totally just quoted Dr. Phil.

My husband and I have been together for seven years now.

We have been married four years today!

We had many fun adventures together before we were married (mawwied? yes, mawwied!). Hopping on planes,  traveling across the country for nights of great music and camping.

Vacations were easy then. Carefree. We didn’t have to worry about babysitters or, “OMG what if something happens and we don’t make it back home.“  This meant I could devote all my time waiting for my husband to fall asleep so I could take funny pictures of me harassing him.

Finally, after living in sin together in our cute little rental, the question was popped.

Spoiler alert.

I said yes!

I made him pose for cheesy couple pictures with me, which is so not his thing!!

I  tried to put into words just how much he means to me.  It was not easy.

On March 11th, of 2006, the big day arrived. Both of us taking on our usual roles. Him, the strong, silent and loving one. Me, the loud, loud and loud one (and very happy!).

We didn’t want a traditional wedding. We didn’t plan on a first dance.  Thankfully, our band surprised us with one. They played “What a Wonderful World”, and we danced. And I bawled. And it was so perfect. My world was wonderful because he was mine. And legally so, sucka!

We should have been off to Hawaii for our honeymoon the day after our wedding.  We missed our flight and had to stay an extra night in Houston. We refused to go back home, opting to check into a hotel and fly out the next day. We laughed it off and made the best of it. We were together.

We finally made it to Hawaii the next day. Precisely one day before I cracked my kneecap in half walking to the pool climbing a mountain.

He spent a week pushing me around the resort in a wheelchair, which I kind of liked because I am one lazy bitch.  I still wore my sexy honeymoon lingerie.  And though my strut was more of a hobble and, well, there were the crutches, it was perfect. We were together.

Oh, and I got us a shit ton of Vicodin for our vacation. Score!

Married life before we had our precious baby boy was so simple. We were still able to jet away to Mexico or Vegas to party with our friends. And laugh at them when they passed out from having too much to drink.

We decided to have a baby.  I got pregnant right away. I was thrilled and terrified.  I miscarried a month later.  My husband was amazing.  He was everything I needed.

Except for a baby.

We got pregnant again the very next month! I was thrilled and terrified. And, apparently, I blamed everything on George W. Bush.

I began having contractions at 27 weeks. I was in the hospital for 3 days and at home under house arrest for 10 weeks.  I had a subcutaneous IV in my thigh, which delivered medicine to slow my contractions. I pretty much would have gone insane without my husband there. I thought this was the worst thing in the world. Did I really want to be a mom? I was not sure why I was even doing it.  Until I met him….

Then I realized I would have walked through hell and back to get to that moment.

I will never forget my husband’s face the first time he met our son.  He said to him, “Hey buddy!!!” with so much joy in his voice and such a smile on his face, I thought his head would explode. It takes my breath away and makes me cry to this day when I hear that “Hey buddy” in my head. My son is so lucky to have him as a daddy.

Ten days after that perfect day, the worst thing in the world happened. I lost four of the most important people in my life.

I have no idea how I would have made it through this without my husband. Amazing husband + Zoloft = you will survive, yo. He just has a way of calming me down. His presence alone does it. No words are really needed.

Putting up with me is not always easy. I am dramatic. I am stubborn. I can be really defensive. I talk way too much. I leave cabinet doors  and drawers open all over the house. I am crazy disorganized and a total scatterbrain. I have panic attacks on airplanes. Then I drink too much on said airplane.  I am pretty much like having a second child sometimes.

But, hey, when I fuck up,  I bake things like this.

Sometimes I embarrass him. I am loud. I say inappropriate things. It’s sometimes hard for me to be serious. I will also cop a feel any chance I get.

We sure have made ourselves a beautiful little family. I love us so much. I can’t believe this is my life.

Eventually, I do want to add to it. But, not quite yet. I want to enjoy this. The right now. It will never be the three of us again.

I love my husband way more than I think he knows. I hope I tell him enough. I mean, I tell him I love him all the time, but do I show it like I did in the beginning?  The sweet things I used to do for him daily seem to get put on the back-burner way too often.  And it’s not because I don’t want to do them, but because I am still figuring out this crazy mom/wife/me juggling act. Cliché, much?

When I first met my husband, an overwhelming feeling of peace came over me. It was hard to explain.

Our dog, Greta, used to do this thing.  At the end of the day she would jump on the bed, curl up in a little bawl and let out a deep sigh of contentment, as if she was thinking, “Thank God I made it here.”

This is how I was finally able to explain how my husband made me feel.  I told him once that he made me do the “Greta sigh”.

We had our wedding bands engraved when we got married. Mine says, “Even breathing felt…”, and his says, “Like something new.”

Exactly.

Thank God I made it here.