Emotion & Control. Because, dude.

I find myself in an unusual position tonight. I’m ill-prepared for my trip in a way that I’m usually quite over-prepared for, to the point of anal-retentiveness. It’s odd, for me. But oddly familiar too. I’ve found myself in this unprepared position more often than I would care to think about these days. It’s emotion, man. Nobody can prepare for it.

I’m on a plane. Flying to the East for a few business days and then flying home. Normally I bring at least one charger for my iPhone, but more often I bring two. Just in case. In case I lose one. In case one stops working. I depend heavily on my phone when I travel. I’m also usually very, very careful about making sure the phone is fully charged before a flight. And here, my dear, is where I find myself utterly unprepared.

You see, I had phone calls this morning. Errands to run. Texting to do. Then I raced home and finished packing with NO time to spare. I grabbed the iPhone lightening plug adapter off the docking station, (and then promptly put it down again . . . somewhere), I grabbed the old charger (that must be used with the adapter) and when I got in the car my stepdad grabbed the black, newer, charger and I handed it to my mom in the backseat to put in my purse. But on the way to the airport someone stopped short and I had to slam on my brakes and things flew forward. I’m willing to lay money on the fact that my black, newer charger is currently laying on the floorboard of my car. Grr. Gnash.

So, here I am, on a plane. 30% power on my phone.

I need good power to my phone. It is a need.  I need to text a few people to confirm my safe arrival. I need to use the GPS on my phone to take me the 45 minute drive from the airport to the hotel. I need my phone for my alarm in the morning. I need my phone, in short, to be connected with my life. Because, I need my people right now. I need to know that I HAVE people. At this time, especially.

I can’t help thinking that this is a metaphor for my life right now. The “plan as much as you want but I’m going to throw you a curveball you never expected” part of my life. Which is nearly all of it, to be honest.

When I sat down with my husband in the Spring and said, look, I think we need to separate and this is why, and this is what I think should happen next, a funny thing happened. Nothing went according to my plan. All my little miniatures in my Lego board of life did not move where I wanted them to move or do what I wanted them to do. I need to learn that I can’t plan someone else’s emotional response. DUH. That seems basic.

I recognize I have a need to control things.  It’s why I don’t do drugs, and never have. It’s why I drink very little. I can’t stand feeling out of control. I also realize I have a need to plan extensively for ALL OF THE THINGS. This ties nicely with the control issue; the more I plan the more I can control the outcome.

Someone recently said to me, “You have to know everything.” Meaning, I have to always be in the know. I wrote that down and I carry that note with me. I’ve been contemplating it. Yes, I know that I always want to know about the things I want to know about. (Follow that?) If it’s something or someone I care deeply about then, yes, I need and want to know. But there are many, many things I could give a rat’s ass about and absolutely do not need the details.

So how do I find a happy medium? How do I let go enough to accept not knowing what I absolutely don’t need to know?

Need to know, need to know. I want to know. It’s like the Cate Blanchett role from Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. At the end she’s saying “I vant to know! I vant to know!” and she taps into the aliens brains and she just completely disintegrates.  Isn’t that always the way? (I sure hope that last part doesn’t end up being a metaphor for my life as well).

My life is in such a state that I’m paralyzed by my inability to plan. My actions are dictated by others right now. Dictated by one driving force: emotion. I’m playing defense and I surely wish I was playing offense. Though I’m using a sports analogy, it’s not a competition. Not by a longshot. I’m trying to relieve the pressure, the pain, the angst by not being on the offensive. I’m consciously letting things unfold and only playing defense when absolutely required. But I have a feeling that this isn’t working to my benefit. Not even remotely.

If only all those little Lego miniatures would have done what I asked. If only they had gone the way I needed them to go. But it’s not a game, or toy. It’s life. Life is messy. It’s real. It’s unpredictable. I can plan all I want but there’s this little thing called emotion that, I think, can both flatten cities and cause widespread devastation. At the same time, it can build gorgeous bridges, transport people to a higher plane of being, and it’s our DAMN REASON FOR LIVING.

Emotion. It’s no joke. People need people. They just do.

In contemplation,


P.S. Be kind to each other.

I’ve been holding my tongue

Because I don’t know how to say it. I don’t want to say it. It’s distasteful to say or write. I have said it but I haven’t really written it. There is a difference. There’s a finality.

I am not naturally brave.

This decision. The depth of my sadness, my despair, my fear – it was vast and deep and all-consuming. What could possibly make me break the hearts of the people I hold so very dear to me? What could drive me there? What would make me stand up and do this horrible thing that I vowed to never do?

13 years and 2 months ago when I stood up in front of our family & friends and declared (gulp) divorce was not an option for me I whole-heartedly believed it. With the knowledge I had then. I didn’t know what would happen. I couldn’t imagine.

I could write a long diatribe about how I feel I’m the injured party. How I feel the decision I’ve made is the right one – not only for me, but for him, and the kids. I could explain that in detail; but what would be the point?

For the record: I have very good reasons. I have reasons that a lesser woman would have succumbed to long ago. But there really is no point in delineating each of those reasons. There is always going to be two sides to every story. We are always going to see a situation from our own perspectives – indeed, how could we not? – and when those perspectives are misaligned there simply is no agreement to be found.

All I ask is this – if you ever loved me or trusted me or thought I had a good head on my shoulders then, please, take a moment to understand what level of unhappiness would drive me to make this awful, painful, hurtful decision. This . . . this is never what I wanted. How did THIS become the lesser of two miseries?

Realize, please, that you have not walked in my shoes. You don’t know. Nobody can know how I felt or feel. Nobody can understand. All you can do is trust the ME that you do know and realize that my logical head isn’t going to let me randomly, without thought or worry, make a decision such as this.

Don’t forget that I’m still here. The person you know and love – I’m still here and I am still me. The love I have in my heart for the people I have called family for 14 years is still here. It’s unfailing. I hold no anger or resentment to them. I am, most of all, so very, very sad.

To him, though, I have such a mix of feelings. Sadness. Confusion. Anger. Resentment.

Yes, those feelings all have a time & place. I think it’s time to let them go now. They have no place in my future. I’m tired of their companionship and I bid them farewell.

*sigh*  And still it must be said:

Several months ago I asked my husband of 13 years for a separation. He has recently come back and pushed for a divorce. We are in a holding pattern for now. I’m hoping that we can do the best by our kids, given the circumstances. They, and their well-being, are my priority.

With love,


The Bloggess makes me pee my pants

Be forewarned: All the links contained in this post lead to a site that is rife with cussing, dark humor and lovely sarcastic wit.

I have a confession: I’m in love with The Bloggess.

No, I’m not in love love (I’m curious but not THAT curious) but I’m definitely into some hardcore admiration. She’s so delightfully witty and clever and random and oddball and naughty. Yes. All those things.

And she’s still called a mom blogger? She’s more of an antidote to the stereotypical mom blogger.  She is a mom, and she is a blogger, and I guess she does post some parenting type stuff . . . but I like it best when she’s just posting about random crap. Like giant metal chickens named Beyonce. HELLO.

I don’t want to turn this into a post about a blogger I’m jealous of because that’s NOT the case here. (I was, and am, jealous of Joni still – that girl has mad skills that I totally envy). But with The Bloggess I’m not jealous, per se. Or maybe jealous isn’t the right word. Admiration is all I can think of that fits. The girl’s got balls, man. Her mind twists and turns more than a corn maze.

Okay, I may be a tad bit jealous of her ability to turn a completely inane subject into something inexplicably, gut-wrenchingly, I’m-going-to-get-fired-for-laughing-too-much-at-my-desk-funny. Or maybe her ability to delight in and enlighten the masses on any morbid subject she has a fascination with and make it all seem palatable.

The Bloggess: “Well, now I’m all curious. I can’t smell my own eyeballs, dude. This exactly is why I got married.”

But really, most of all, I love the way she takes some random prose and slices and dices it to her bidding. The way she can say something so simple but so uber-effective. She’s succinct and goes straight for the jugular. She has a dry, sarcastic humor that really resonates with me.

Side note: My husband says my humor is really dry as well – which is why he gets mad at me sometimes and I have to yell, “DUDE I WAS KIDDING. HAVE YOU MET ME?”

So I read about Beyonce (the chicken, not the singer) a couple months ago and nearly had an asthma attack getting through the post. Later that night I read it out loud to my husband. I had to stop multiple times to take a breath, or potty break (and panty change), from all the laughing. He just looked at me like my my laughter was a foreign language. Though, at parts, he did smirk a little, but mostly he was like, “huh?”

The Bloggess: “Then I yelled through his door, “It’s an anniversary gift for you, a-hole.  Two whole weeks early.  15 YEARS IS BIG METAL CHICKENS.””

I’ve been sharing more of her posts with him recently and I think he’s really starting to appreciate her humor. Like last week, for example, I sent him this little convo between The Bloggess and her husband, Victor.  He (my husband, not Victor) wrote me back fairly quickly (SEE? He actually read it without me having to nag – that’s something right there.) and his response was, “oh dear god.”

So I totally think he’s getting it.

Then when I got home he leaned in and sniffed my eyeballs. He determined they were odorless. That’s a win for me on both counts.

I think we all work a lot and life is hard and if The Bloggess can write about random crap and make me laugh then I’ll take it. Levity? Yes, please.

But, deeper than the humor, she reflects a relationship with her husband that I think a lot of wives (and husbands, judging by the comments) can really understand. Marriage is really freaking hard sometimes and spouses are not meant to be clones of each other. Two people, one mind? No, thank you.

I like my husband the best when he’s doing something I can’t do. I also like it a lot when he admires a trait I have that he doesn’t. The Bloggess’s husband is the straight man to her schtick.  I counter-balance my husband’s act all the time – HELLO, he’s an actor – but at home we can switch those roles pretty easily. Being able to counter-balance each other is what makes it all work together.

Excerpt from The Bloggess:

Victor:  What?  I’ve never wanted a monkey.


Victor:  Not me.

 Well…that’s what’s wrong with you.



(We were both yelling, but for two entirely different reasons.)

If you’ve never read The Bloggess I would start with Beyonce. Then go change your pants and come back and read some more. You won’t believe it until you read it.

Oh, and this:



A Love Story

Get a cookie & a coffee and settle in because this got long. 
I warned you here and here that there would be more to come from the phenomenal inspiration I have received from reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s follow-up to Eat. Pray, Love called Committed.
There’s a part near the beginning of the book when Liz (again, I call her Liz because we’re that tight now) is first beginning her journey to understand the institution of marriage. She was in a village in Vietnam and she began speaking to a family of Hmong women about their marriages. She realized quickly there was a disconnect between her Western concept of marriage (for want of love & companionship) versus a more Eastern concept of practical/arranged marriages. As she further ponders this she says:

[the Hmong woman was not] placing her marriage at the center of her emotional biography . . . 

In the modern industrialized Western world . . . the person whom you choose to marry is perhaps the single most vivid representation of your own personality. 

 And this gem:

Your spouse becomes the most gleaming possible mirror through which your emotional individualism is reflected back to the world.

Read that last one two or three times to let it sink in. That is so true. So crazy, unbelievably true.  
As Liz next states, and I fully concur with, Western women cannot wait to share the stories of how they met their husbands. In detail. With pictures, if possible. It’s true. Because we (we, because *I* am one of those women) consider choosing our husbands as one of the singularly most important things we will do in our lives. Until we have kids, or a divorce, it may be the SINGLE most important thing we do. We value choosing our partner much more than choosing a profession, a place to live, or a dog. Why? Because those things are fairly changeable and usually lacking in broken hearts and shattered crockery. Husbands & marriages, and divorces, especially, tend to be high in the broken hearts and broken crockery category. 
(I know this from personal experience. My husband still reminds me of his favorite cup that I threw at him and broke about 5 years ago when we were going through the hardest time we’ve had in our marriage. Yes, I throw things. These days I try to limit it to things that don’t break or hurt if they hit their mark. Like pillows. It’s who I am. My biological father was a redhead. Fiery. I have bad aim though.)
For these Hmong women their husbands play a role, or position, in their lives but have no bearing on their lives as a WHOLE. Not in the way that we Western women wrap ourselves up in our menfolk and then, later, when things get real or turn sour we have to unwrap ourselves and remember who we are again. For them, it appears that they remain who they are inherently as individuals without needing or even wanting validation as a woman, wife or mother from their husbands. (And vice versa for the husbands as well, it seems. (Bear in mind these are my observations from Liz’s observations so there is a fair amount of interpretation happening here)). 
Liz is quick to point out that just because husband/wife roles appear to be be a little less all-encompassing than we expect in the West that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a notion of romantic love. Romantic love is everywhere and crosses all cultures. In their culture, however, it may not be tied to the actual mechanics and necessities of marriage. Interesting, no? I believe these kinds of “pragmatic marriages” can breed a type of love – especially those long-lasting marriages of many of our grandparents. It’s just a different love than love born from passion first.
Love is love. Marriage is marriage. 
But we, the greedy Westerners, we want it all. Wrapped up in a pretty package with a bow on top. We don’t really want to work for it. We just want it to appear – perfect and complete the moment we say “I will.” 
I think there’s a point in marriages – maybe it’s the infamous 7 year itch – when they will either break or bond. Some of them may string out past the 7 years due to some efforts from one or both parties to keep things together – but generally the writing is on the wall at some point. 
But in other marriages this may be the point when the partners actually start effectively partnering. They start actually learning to listen, really listen, to each other and learn that marriage and love must be nurtured. A wife must water and fertilize her husband’s love and he must absolutely do the same to hers. That can’t be done without respect.

I think marriage years can be compared with individual growth in terms of maturity. So: 
  • The first 7ish years of marriage is like being a teenager. Instant gratification, I want what I want and I don’t want to compromise. Classic teenager behavior. 
  • The next 7ish years is that really, really important time between being a teenager and fully-fleshed adult with responsibilities and decisions. So much growth and change in a small, compact time frame. If we aren’t careful we grow too quickly. Other times we don’t grow enough. It’s a balancing act to make sure one does not outgrow the other.
  • The next 7ish, or more, may be the cementing of that mutual respect and maturity. At least that’s what I’m hoping because we’re heading there next. I’ll keep you posted. 
What does it all mean? It means I’m a Western woman. I want LOVE with my marriage. I want to be the deliverer of his happiness and the nurturer of his soul – but I’m mature enough in my marriage to know that it CAN’T all come from me. It has to come from within him. Just like some of my inspiration, self-awareness, confidence, and individuality MUST come from inside me. Because I’m still me and he’s still him and we just share each other.
And, since I’m a Western woman – here’s our story:
It was ’98 and I was 22. I worked at the student newspaper at my university. We had a cartoonist that I knew of – from reading the paper we issued – but I had never met. We called him the midnight cartoonist because he ALWAYS turned his cartoon strip in at midnight the day it was due. So I never met him until one day he came in during the daylight hours and our editor introduced us. 
He had long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Earrings. His face was red because he had just ridden his bike to the office and it was wet outside. There was a line of water that had kicked up from his back tire onto the back of his anorak type jacket. he was wearing holey khaki pants and had on leg pegged (due to the bike riding). He had a huge warm smile. 
I didn’t see him again until January ’99 when we had a class together. I smiled at him but he didn’t remember me at first and I had to remind him that we both worked for the paper.
Then he started walking me back to the newspaper offices every day after class. One day I told him my BFF was coming to visit and asked him where should I take her? And did he want to go out with us? So, you see, *I* asked *him* out. I did it. 
So she came up and we all went out. At the end of the night he leaned over and told me how cute my freckles were. Then he kissed me.

The next day I left for Spring Break and thought of him most of the time I was gone. I came back A DAY EARLY from Spring Break because I wanted to see HIM. We spent every day together from then on. But I had already planned to move back to California in 2 months and I did. I moved away. Honestly, I kept telling myself it was just a fling. His hair was longer than mine for goodness sake! 

I was wrong. I moved back Cali in May of ’99. He came to visit me in July. I went to visit him in September and he proposed. Scarcely 6 months had passed since we had started dating and we were engaged. WE JUST KNEW. It was another 4 months, and 2 visits, before he moved to California to be with me. We got married 6 months after that in July 2000.  See, proof:
And we lived happily ever after. 
*barf*  PUHLEEEZE. 
Remember, I throw crockery. AT HIS HEAD. (Once, about 5 years ago. And I missed.)

We live, more or less happily, and we try hard and we WANT to be married to each other. Should we ask for more than that? I don’t think so. It works for us.

Great Expectations

Okay, I’m going to attempt to put together a cohesive narrative from some of the thoughts that have been floating willy-nilly in my head since reading Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert. I finished the book a few days ago and, as promised, I have started going back, re-reading, and highlighting those passages that particularly resonate with me.
That Elizabeth Gilbert chick knows what she’s doing. Out of the gate the first concept she writes about is something that likely resonates with all married women – did I make the right decision? And not just about marriage, but about everything. Do my expectations of love & marriage and my current reality gel with what I thought they would be? Once upon a time each one of us made a decision that altered our life path. In order to make a decision of that momentousness we also generally produce a set of expectations – the future effects of that decision.
But first there’s the decision. We are so overwhelmed with choices now that, as she writes, “many of us simply go limp from indecision.” I have certainly felt that way. Too many options. When I’m asking my hubby what he wants for dinner, or what kind of something he wants and I say you can have this, or this, or this, or this, or this – he interrupts with, “Too many options. Narrow it down for me.” Because confronted with so many options how can we possibly know which one of them will add to our lives – make us healthier, wealthier and wiser? 
Once we do make a decision do we then run the risk of becoming “compulsive comparers?” As Liz says (because she and I are so tight now I call her Liz) compulsive comparers are “always measuring [their] lives against some other person’s life, secretly wondering if [they] should have taken [their] path instead.”


I’m guilty of it, as you read here. My blogging inspiration, and the object of my “life envy,” Joni, wrote that she was guilty of it as well here when she looks at the Pioneer Woman. If you are a woman who has never experienced life envy then I want to meet you because you’ll be the first (that I know of).

I’m going to re-create the following passage word for word because I think it’s huge:

All these choices and all this longing can create a weird kind of haunting in our lives – as though the ghosts of all our other, unchosen, possibilities linger forever in a shadow world around us, continuously asking, “Are you certain this is what you really wanted?”

Oh boy. That’s it. How do we look at our lives today and be content?
I’m 35. I’m married to a man who isn’t perfect but I love him anyway. I have a job that is far from perfect, and especially aggravating of late, but it’s my means for supporting my family. I have two children who are also imperfect – but they are MINE, and a part of me, and that’s the important part. I stand here today with this imperfect life and I could so easily wallow in despair for other choices I could have made – but there are no guarantees in life, you know? I could own a house on the hill, wear expensive jewelry, drive a sports car, etc, and still be absolutely miserable. You get out of life what you put into it. 
Let me say that again: YOU GET OUT OF LIFE WHAT YOU PUT INTO IT.
If you are discontented and unhappy then you are likely going to get discontent and unhappiness in return. But if you take all your expectations and filter them through your present reality then you just might find you have exactly what you didn’t know you wanted. 
I have a happy, loving home. I have a husband who strives to be the best he can be, who loves me, and who makes me laugh. I have two gorgeous and talented children who melt my heart every night when they choose to share my spot on the sofa with me rather than sit – anywhere – else (and we have a large sofa). 
It’s all about perception – not perfection. All the other stuff – the bills, the grocery shopping, the late homework – that’s just the minor aggravations that life gives us to keep us humble. 
Now, I’m going to close this missive so I can go enjoy a perfect evening with my imperfect family. 


Friday Night Q&A

In the immortal words of Hammerstein:

Getting to know you,
Getting to know all about you.
Getting to like you,
Getting to hope you like me.

Okay, now that that ear worm is firmly embedded in your brain, let’s move on to the Q&A/getting to know you section of our blog today. (Ours, today, because I would like your participation. Yes, YOU).
I’m pretty sure only about 3 people are reading my blog but let’s play a game and find out. I’ll answer some questions (completely random and made up by yours truly) and you answer them back to me in a comment, okay?
Here we go:
Q. What’s that one song that, no matter what, always stays in your top 5 favorites?
A. I love music. I do. I’m not one to pro-actively go hunt down new music and what I listen to is far from esoteric. To me, it’s all about the emotion the music provokes; it could be because that’s the song I danced to in 8th grade at the Y dances while getting my heart broken by my first crush (Love Bites by Def Leppard), or something newer that tugs at the heart strings (almost anything by Adele). So – since 7th grade I have LOVED Just Like Heaven by The Cure. Even when I went through my country music phase.
Confession: I even thought Robert Smith was hot once upon a time.

Newsflash: he’s not.

Q. Think back to your life and identify a crossroads, a decision you made that altered the course of your life. If you had chosen the other path what would it have been?

A. The thing about crossroad-decisions is they are so impactful that it’s hard to separate the decision from the effects that followed. Often one path isn’t particularly better than the other – just different. For me, right around the time I got engaged to my husband I had been applying to a semester abroad program. I chose marriage, and then a job, and a family followed shortly after. If I went on the semester abroad program I likely would not have married my husband, I would not have my babies, and I would be in a very different place now. I have no idea if it would be better or not – I certainly would have had different experiences. But I also wouldn’t have these cheese-monsters so how in the world can I argue with that??
Q. What do you typically do on a Friday night?

A. Friday nights are usually family nights at our house. Tonight, however, the hubby is out with friends, the kids are in bed (now – after a long Plants vs. Zombies game they needed my help with. They *asked* for help. I swear.), and these are my companions:
Some people may think this is sad. I, on the other hand, can’t tell you how peaceful my house is right now or how nicely the wine is going down. Silence. Sip. Ahhh. 

(In case you were worried that I ate the whole box of cookies I must tell you that I put the cookies away just after I took this picture. Scout’s honor. The wine I kept out just a teensy bit longer.)


A half-baked idea is okay as long as it’s in the oven.

Do I shirk my duties and dive into the blog thoughts swirling around in my head? I could literally write volumes right now if given the proper time and space to sit and think it all through. 
Alas, that’s not even an option! Too much freakin’ work.
I got home from my trip very late on Friday night, or extremely early Saturday morning – depending on your point of view. I was delayed an extra 6 hours in the Denver airport after sprinting to my gate only to find out I missed my connection. Also, I DON’T SPRINT. I don’t even jog. Seriously. I think I almost died. But then I had to spend 6 more hours there and I truly knew what death was.
Spotty internet connection and limited charging capabilities meant I couldn’t stay online or watch a movie to bide the time. I read some but I was completely distracted. Too many people hustling and bustling all over the place.
Saturday morning I woke up stiff and sore. I sort of decided then and there to take the rest of the weekend off. We celebrated the hubby’s 41 years young, I hung out with the boys and caught up on some of my Tivo’d stuff. 
Back to the grind today and, wow, do I have a lot to do. Plus, at home, there’s so much kid STUFF to deal with – Invention Convention, dentist appointments, IEP appointments, Katie Beckett Applications, laundry, lunch money, etc. I feel like I might never come up for air.
When I do, indeed, come up for air then I hope to put together some great blog posts around what I’ve been reading. I’m absolutely loving Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed. I seriously want to take a highlighter and go back through and mark all the poignant passages. In fact, I think I may do just that.
If you are married you should read this book. If you are thinking about getting married you should read this book. If you are divorced you should read this book. If you at any point in your life plan to live in a committed relationship you should read this book. No lie. 
The thing is – it’s all the stuff we learn after 10-15 years of marriage. It’s the distance and experience. The plain ‘ole knowledge we don’t have when we are all in L.O.V.E. and dying to get married RIGHT.THIS.MINUTE. 
It’s the things our mothers (some of them) or our grandmothers (a lot of them) went through and thought about and dealt with without actually giving it a name. They just lived it. Sucked it up and dealt with it. It’s the angst wives go through – the sacrifices, challenges, juggling we all do and learn to deal with some way, some how. It’s all about finding that happy medium for us “modern” wives.

More to come.

Redefining white knights

The older I get the more I see that life is about the moments. I’m having one right now and I love it. I’m sitting in my darkened office looking out the window. It’s an overcast day but that suits me fine. I’m listening to Train, “Marry Me.” This has the same effect on me as listening to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.” I get all gooey and warm inside and revert back to that 16 year old girl waiting for the fabled Prince Charming on his white horse. This makes me think of a flurry of pop culture-ish quotes:

Charlotte from Sex & the City:

I’ve been dating since I was fifteen! I’m exhausted! Where is he?

Faith Hill, “This Kiss”:

All I wanted was a white knight with a good heart, soft touch, fast horse

I think, ladies, that those of us that have been married for more than a couple years know that there is no white knight to come in and save the day. Life isn’t about being rescued, and if you are depending on a man to save you, support you, and buy you bon-bons you are on a collision course with reality and will soon be landing smack on your face.

I don’t know what I expected marriage to be like when I got married at 25, but it wasn’t a white knight to make it all better. I expected a partnership and equal division of labor (being somewhat of a feminist, if you want to use that term) with a lot of love. (Picture: vacuuming and dusting together, gardening together, folding laundry – together). I was in love in a way I hadn’t been before. It was a powerful meeting of the minds (and other things) and it happened very, very fast. We finished each others thoughts. We were different enough that we complemented each other; we were alike enough that we often enjoyed the same things. When people ask, “how did you know” the answer was, and is, always, “We just knew.

July 14, 2000

Next month is 12 years since we started dating. I’m still in love – but it has changed so much. We have grown together. We still love some of the same things and we both still have our own separate passions. I think I lost myself for awhile but for the past few years I’ve been fighting to get myself back. To remember again what *I* like – flavors, scents, music, things to do and read, etc. I lost myself from being a mom & wife, but as I get to know myself again I think that only makes our marriage stronger. He likes my strong & sassy side. (Sometimes more than others).

We still argue and bicker and get our feelings hurt. But I don’t think it’s like it used to be; we aren’t so self-righteous now. We’ve been through some things now and, for me at least, I see that nothing is ever black & white.

It’s all about the moments.

I took today off from work. This morning I pulled on a jacket and shoes over my PJ’s to drive my oldest to school while the hubby drove our youngest (they go to separate schools due to the Autism thing). I had just pulled into the garage and was turning my car off when my cell phone rang.

The hubby, “did you go straight home?”

Me, “yes, I’m in my PJ’s.”

Hubby, “I’m going to get you some Starbucks since, you know, it’s a special day. Do you want cold or hot?”

Me, “hot please.”

That’s MY white knight.