Sad Puppy

“I know what your blog should be today,” The hubby said this to me two days ago.

I turned from the door and gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Sad Puppy.”

I still was confused.

“Babe, that is the fifth time you’ve checked the door in a half an hour.”

I gave him a shamefaced smile. It was the truth.  I had been waiting for my mom to come so we could begin our road trip. Since about ten minutes after I got home from work, I had been ready to go. That was at twelve-fifteenish. She was supposed to be at our house at one. It was one-twenty-four.

Who’s the late one now Mommy? (just kidding.)

My eagerness is fueled by my need to be close to my son. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday before I went to work. Five days and one mental breakdown later, I was practically itching with withdrawal. As the hubby put it I was a “mental case.” In retrospect I was a walking mental case. Tears were always moments away, irritation level extremely high, and restlessness even higher. 

The fact that he called me a ‘sad puppy’ is a major understatement for what I had become.

So why did I put myself though sending Darren six hours away to spend time with the hubby’s family?

At first I wasn’t sure. But after fielding a half million ‘How will you do it?” questions from co-works, family and friends, and a million “I could never do it,” and one “Enjoy it while you can,” (Cindalicous) statements, I know why.

Growing up, I was never given the chance to really get to know my adopted father’s family. As a result, I barely know them and rarely see them. Now that Darren is back home with us and hearing how much fun he had with his cousins and aunts and uncles, it makes me regret not knowing them better.

When the topic of Darren going to visit for awhile (without mommy or daddy along) came up, I was completely against it. I actually did what I could to put it off for a while. It’s not that I didn’t want him to go see family, but I didn’t know how I would cope without my little man. The more the hubby talked to me about it, it became very evident that the visiting would happen. I agreed it should happen.

 That doesn’t mean I had to like it.

It means that family is a high priority for me. 

It has been, and always will be. 

It means that if I have to send my son six hours away for a week, it will happen. But be prepared for me to be a basket case. Actually, be prepared to deal with the emotional, hormonal, irrational lost woman in your presence. AKA: a mother. 

The Hubby felt the same lost feelings, but he was manlier about it.

“I miss my Lingle,” (His pet name for Darren, don’t ask). That’s all I heard from him, that and random bursts of laughter as he was reminded about some cute thing his little man would do.

But he made the same decision as me. 

It means family is a high priority for him.

It has been, and always will be.

“So how, often do you think you’d be able to let Darren go visit?” This comes from the hubby tonight.

“Babe, I just got him back, I am not even thinking about the next time he’s going.” 

He just laughs. I think he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to deal with me being a mental case anymore.

(Leave a comment and let me know what you would do in this situation. Thanks for reading!)

The Dirty Laundry Fetish

The laundry and I are holding an uneasy truce. All the clean clothes are in three baskets piled in the bedroom, while all the dirty clothes occupy the floor in front of the laundry machine. The dryer is rumbling and the washer is waiting patiently to feed it its fifth load of laundry.

We have come to an impasse because I promised to keep up with laundry if the laundry promised to stop enticing the hubby. I have very low hopes in the laundry, because the hubby has a dirty laundry fetish and can be very persuasive.

You don’t believe me.

You should. Ever since I’ve known the hubby he has been a dirty clothes diver. It never matters if he knows (because I’ve told him) that certain baskets are dirty clothes. He gets some perverted pleasure in digging through piles of laundry for a semi clean shirt he can wear inside out.  I am glad to report that this fetish extends to clean clothes too.

But clean laundry is also off limits. Before you think I am abusing him, there is a reason. This man will unfold a whole basket of white t-shirts just to find the ‘whitest’ one. The kicker is that he is going to wear it as an undershirt. My mom says the simple solution is to hang all of them up. I just issue an ultimatum.

“Baby, all clothes either in front of the washer or in a basket are off limit, or else. Do you understand me?”

“Now, why do these special rules have to be made?” He says this with a sly look on his face.

He knows why.

He is going to convince the laundry to commit the biggest sin; to cheat on me.

Yeah, I know, the jerk.

But the laundry and I went to couples therapy and we sorted things out.  It told me that I never paid enough attention to it. I complained that the laundry was a home wrecker, always looking to split us up by tempting the hubby and encouraging his dirty fetish. That’s why we have both made promises to change and give the other more attention.

It is also the reason we have a date tonight.

Skinny Girls Have Jiggly Too

Cindalicous calls it her persians (like the bakery treat). Black people know it as a booty-do. A lot of bloggy moms refer to it as their jiggly. Me I just know it as the extra padding. But I do have it.

My discovery of this jiggly started when my husband looked at me two weeks ago and said.

“Those jeans don’t fit like they use to.”

“Um, yeah. I did have a baby.”

I know he didn’t mean it a derogatory. Really, I think he is proud of it. Because he won’t have to explain to his family that his wife isn’t anorexic anymore; she is just really skinny. Pulse at the age of twenty-three I finally have hips and a budonka-donk. But it did make me start sneaking honest looks at my new form in the mirror.

What an unsettling experience. 

I will be honest; I thought I would get lucky and keep the same figure I entered my pregnancy with. Now, I have this pouch sitting on my front side. I should just name Darren Joey and tuck him back inside until he can walk.

Any change to a woman’s body regardless of her pervious weight, shape, etc. is life changing. And like most women I feel a huge urge to count carbs, diet excessively, and take inventory any and all pieces of food that past my lips and win my body back.

And like any sensible woman, I combine these extremes with going out to buy better fitting jeans.

I wiggle in to a part of Charlotte Russe Curvy Boot dark wash jeans and look in the mirror. The jiggly is making a definite concave, but my waist still has circulation. Then there is a knock on the fitting room door.

“Baby you in there?”

“Yeah,” I open the door to show him the wares. He looks them over. They get the butt-approval. I look doubtfully in the mirror and grab my jiggly.

He’s preening in the mirror.

“Babe, are you ok with my jiggly?”

Without looking at me he keeps smoothing his hair down. I block his view still clutching my pouch.

He looks me in the eye.

“Do you mind my jiggly?:

“No.”

“So I can’t really say anything can I? You look great.”

Have I mentioned I love this man?

Missing the Little Man

My son is gone. 

Ok, I know that is dramatic and only part of the truth, but I am in a dramatic type of mood. Darren is actually visiting his grandma in Milwaukee. 

So he isn’t gone, but temporarily absent. Either way I have to deal with being just a wife for three more days, and who wants to do that?

Me, and not me. When I left for work yesterday I was proud of myself. I was teary-eyed, but no tears were shed. I made it through work without crying or excessive calling or texting. I gave myself a big pat on the back.

The dread set in on the drive home; twenty-five minutes to contemplate how I was going to spend a night (and the next several nights) alone with the hubby? So I tried to keep positive. He’s not that bad of a fellow to hang out with. He has a sense of humor, he a good, if sometimes frustrating, conversationalist, and when we go to sleep he doesn’t snore too loudly. 

So under my anxiety and worry I am looking forward to spending quality time with him.

That’s doesn’t explain why when I arrived home I couldn’t sum up the energy to go inside.

The dread I had been feeling had transformed in to quiet panic. What was it going to feel like walking into a house without my baby boy?  Whatever that feeling was I did not want to feel it. Nope, I would just have to sit here until I had to go to work in the morning. 

Then I got a picture text. My baby boy had officially arrived and he was smiling framed by a heart of rose. My jealousy spiked. Two seconds later I was bawling.

And that is how the hubby found me ten minutes later. 

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m fine.” Sniff.

“If it’s that bad we can go pick him up tomorrow.”

“No, that’s not the point.” I wipe my face. It really isn’t the point at all. Honestly, I do want Darren to have bonding time with his fraternal family.  I just don’t want to be six hours away when he does it. 

“You’re not going to be depressed like this all week are you?” The things men say that don’t make situations better.

“No, I’m fine.” I just need time to adjust. Please.

A little over twenty-four hours later I am partially adjusted. Thanks to some retail therapy in the form of a gift card; provided by the hubby (thank you very much) last week in anticipation of a possible meltdown on my part. He knows how to take my mind off of things.

Two days and a dozen hours until I see my little man again.

I can do this.

This is the picture his Uncle Rodney took today of him.  I so miss that face!

What’s in Your Couch?

I am on a mission to find my camera. I was using it last night, but in the space of twelve hours it has completely disappeared. This is no surprise to me.

My house is a disaster. There are clothes (clean and dirty) in every room. Toys are scattered in the living room and I don’t even want to fathom how many hours it will take me to get our bedroom organized much less the rest of the house.

So for an organized and orderly person my house is crisis. As a recovering organized and orderly person, now known as a wife and mother, it could be worse. Trust me. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; but back to the missing camera.

Because I had been using it on the couch last night, it seemed that was the logical place to look. So I remove all the clothes (clean and dirty) from the cushions. No camera. Then I removed the cushions and did the ritualistic cushion check.  I know this could get ugly.

I pull out the typical things; pens, pencils, socks (dirty), candy wrappers, TV remotes, toys. Then the unusual things; underwear (clean), dirty diapers, used baby spoons, two moldy bottles (I am pretty sure that was the hubby), and a pair of Darren’s pants (that could be either of us).  How embarrassing.

Not just embarrassing, but cringe worthy. Thank God we don't have guests very often.

Daddy’s Getting Old

Ok, I have to write this now.

There once was a day that I was my husband. Not literally. But I was the one who was doing what he is now. Sleeping, actually snoring, and its only ten-thirty!  

When I was pregnant I was sleeping beauty. The only difference was that a kiss from my heart’s true love did not wake me up (I also don’t snore). Actually, the hubby informed me, it would make me moan and whimper and roll over to cuddle with him.  But wake me up? Never. I needed all the sleep I could get. He on the other hand would stay up until three in the morning watching movies or playing video games.

My have the rolls have changed. Yesterday he (not me) brought these changes to light.

“Babe, I feel like an old man.”

“Really, why do you suppose.” I roll my eyes. I hear this every year as he gets closer to his birthday. It’s only October, I do not want to spend the next four months convincing him he’s not that old.

“Have you noticed I am out by like ten o’clock like every night?”

“That is true. You are getting old.” 

With him snoring in the next room over, I have to take the moment to savor this. No longer am I the Debbie downer. I am the late-to-bed-early-to-rise mommy, who has a ridiculous amount of energy. Do I look tired? Maybe, but I am at the moment better at something than my husband.

I will take any one-up any chance I can.

Hubby Vocabulary 101

“Babe do you have that dictionary app on your phone?”

“No.”

“It’s cool. It has so many words I have never heard of before.” Yah think? Most days I use a least two words he has never heard before. 

Then he says, “Most are words I wouldn’t use in front of my boys, but it’s so cool.” If you asked right now if he is a nerd he would venomously deny it. I have revealed the truth. 

 Today’s word: coruscate. Intransitive verb. Definition: to give off or reflect bright beams or flashes of light; to sparkle.

Hubby: “Use it in a sentence.”

Me: “The sunlight coruscated off of the metal.” I thought he meant me.

Hubby: “When the sunlight hits the vampires in Twilight their skin coruscates.”

Me: “Seriously?” I am surprised he used the right form. I am appalled at his choice of movie.

Hubby says laughing: “What? It makes sense and it's true isn’t? Their skin got all glittery.”

Huh? Glittery? The only reason he knows that is because his mom watched the first two movies while she was here when Darren was born.  I really don’t know if it counts, but he’s so proud of himself. I wouldn't bust his bubble, but I need to make sure this app is still available when Darren starts talking.