Reason Number 20045 to keep drinking

Wednesday night a friend was in town so we had an impromptu ladies night out. Not surprisingly, I drank too much. But we had a great time, and it was just what I needed, in more ways than one.

Thursday, Lance came home from work in a pleasant mood and we chatted amicably (!) for a few minutes before he went out to play baseball with Isaac. Just before he went outside, he stuck his head back in the door and asked,
Hey, did you mean what you said last night? Or was that sarcasm?
Me: What? Last night? Did we talk?
Lance: smiling Yeah, babe, we talked.
Me: furiously flipping through the Rolodex in my mind, searching in vain for any such conversation Oh.
Lance:Well, I just wanted to say thank you. It means a lot. I'm glad you understand.
Me: Um. Okay. I--
Lance: laughing Just say 'you're welcome', babe. I'm taking it all as heartfelt, whether you can remember or not.

And you know, things have been so much better since then! I mean, yeah, it's been less than two days, but still. Who knew? Drunken conversation=relationship salve. I gotta try it more often.

Though I do wonder what exactly I said.

Tale of Woe, Part: Present Day

Friday night, after a long week of pure grumpiness on Lance's part which resulted in a week of avoidance on my part, we finally had a conversation.

Yes, a wine-fueled conversation, but hey, whatever it takes, right?

We talked, and argued, and talked, and I think we even laughed once. I won't say we solved all of our problems--I'm not even sure we solved any of our problems--but it was nice to say the things we'd each been thinking out loud finally.

Discovery:

Truth: Lance is extremely stressed out about his work. The sales are not coming easily anymore, and this is a change he has not handled well.
Truth: I am extremely UN-empathetic to his plight. In my mind, having to work a little harder than you are used to is no reason to pout and throw a tantrum.

Truth: Lance does a really good job, at Cisco, as a salesman; and at home, as a father.
Truth: I don't give him nearly enough credit for that.

Fact: Lance needs deserves strokes from me. When he is feeling down, he doesn't need me to roll my eyes and tell him to suck it up, he needs me to pat his back and tell him he's doing a good job.
Fact:It is almost impossible for me to do that for him. I am just barely holding on to my decision to forgive him, and to not hold any of last year against him. Asking me to go above and beyond that is not fair.


That was Friday. Saturday and Sunday were good days, spent mostly in the company of friends, at the beach, at the neighbors house, lots of summery drinks and barbecues and laughter and friends. Lance and I do great with other people around. It's when it's just the two of us that things get dicey.

Monday night, I am making dinner*, the kids are playing. Lance walks in from work.
Me: Hey babe. How are you?
Lance: grumble mumble mutter Hey
Me: Looking up, watching him open up his computer and glare at his email.
Me: Another great day at the office?
Lance: What? mutter grumble
Me: making dinner
Me:Big sigh. Bad day?
Lance: Yes. Okay? Mondays are just not that great for me these days, okay?
Me: making dinner, not making eye contact

Eventually, the kids come in to eat; Lance and I decide to feed them first instead of sitting down to a family meal. We disagree over the crispiness of the bacon. He makes snide comments about Vivian's leotard (we had suspended her classes this summer since we were traveling so much but she started up again yesterday. Lance thinks it's a waste of money.) I sigh a lot and say to the kids, "Let's hurry up and drink all our milk guys, Daddy's in a bad mood and I don't want to make him madder!"

After dinner, baths & bedtime I escape upstairs while he turns on Sportscenter downstairs.

*dinner being leftover pasta and BLT's, which is all I can rustle from the pantry. We have no money for groceries until the next payday, which is not until Friday.

So yeah. What would you call that: two steps forward, one step back?
Or is that backwards?


I know I need to do better.

Guilty

Upon picking up my daughter from a sleepover at my mother-in-law's house:

MIL: So, I just need to tell you something that Vivian said to me yesterday, out of nowhere."
Me: Oh, what?
MIL:She said, 'Mommy doesn't love Daddy'. And when I asked her why or what she meant, she said, 'Mommy always yells at Daddy'.
Me: Oh! Uh .. . . .
MIL: So I just told her that sometimes people get frustrated with each other and speak sharply to each other but they still love each other, like when Isaac made her mad, she might yell but she still loved him. That seemed to pacify her. But . . .
Me: Oh, that is terrible. That, uh . . .
MIL: So I just thought you should know. They pick up on that stuff. They know what's going on.
Me: Of course. Yes. Um, thank you for telling me. That is terrible.
MIL: And you know, Isaac said the same thing to me, about 6 months ago.
Me: . . .! . .


It makes me want to throw up, just reliving it now. But I need to. I need to put it here, where I can see it, where I can remind myself to grow up already and stop acting like an idiot. So I give it to you to hold and remember, to throw back in my face if I ever start getting high and mighty again.

God. Am such an asshole.

State of the Union, Part Deux

Where was I? Oh yes, the lovely 13 week miscarriage after months of debilitating morning sickness. Let's skip over the horrific part, the appointment with no heartbeat, the call from the genetic counselor days later cheerfully letting me know that my CVS results came back "perfect, everything looks great!", the D&C at the under-construction hospital that was delayed by 3 hours because my OB had an emergency difficult delivery, the waiting on a cot in a hospital gown and nothing else in what amounted to a hallway, staring at the other knee-replacement patients, the nurse who actually asked me if the surgery was elective--yes, skip all that. It sucked.

What was Lance doing during all this?, you might wonder. Actually, it is at this point that he finally took off the evil selfish passive-aggressive hat he'd been wearing and put on his knight in shining armour suit. He was very apologetic, he was very supportive, he took care of me, he tried to make me laugh, he cried with me, and he insisted that we try again. At first, I welcomed this. I needed someone to lean on, and it felt good to have him on my side again.

Our 9 year anniversary was October 3rd, and I remember our dinner out. We had a fabulous time, talking about everything, the miscarriage and when we might start trying again included. We laughed and drank too much wine and it felt very intimate and right.

But it didn't last, and I suppose that is mostly my fault. I didn't really trust him, and once I started feeling better, once I didn't need his support so much anymore, then the trust issues came up again. Also, resentment, for putting me through hell and for what? So I started pulling away a bit. We stopped talking about babies, we stopped talking about most things. I started gearing up for the holidays and I'd wake up feeling resentful but instead of talking about it I'd just let it smoulder all day. We were having sex, and that was still good, but we weren't talking about it, again. I wasn't paying much attention either, as I felt ambivalent about baby-making sex: I still wanted a baby, desperately, but I was also terrified.

Then, miraculously, December 23rd, I got a positive pregnancy test. I was in complete shock. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might be pregnant that cycle, I was sure we hadn't timed intercourse correctly. But there it was.

I wrapped up the test in Christmas paper and handed it to him that night after the kids were in bed.
"What's this?"
"What do you think?" I ask, smiling, thinking that surely he can guess from the shape of the package.
"I don't know."
"Well, open it."
Slowly, he tears off the paper, then says, "Jesus, you are incredible."He laughs a little, drily, so it sounds almost like a cough.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, Jesus! I can't believe it." That dry laugh again.
"But it's good, right?"
"I guess. . . shit."
"Why are you swearing?"
"I don't know."
"I love you, babe."
"You know you can't drink at Christmas now, right?" He turns to look at me for the first time and he is not frowning, but not smiling either. His face looks tight and I can't decide if he is teasing me or being intentionally cruel.
"I know, don't worry." I decide it is just nervous excitement and kiss him on the cheek, escape up the stairs.

This pregnancy is easier than the last: I am not so sick that I can't sleep, I am able to perform simple tasks like boiling a hot dog without gagging. But I am exhausted, like never before. I nap every afternoon with Vivian, leaving Isaac to roam the house alone, playing hour after hour of video games on the computer that I do not have the strength to supervise and god knows what else. Once again, I escape up to my bed the moment Lance is home from work. I sleep easily 12 hours each night plus an hour or more nap during the day and still I feel tired, groggy, heavy, dull as I shuttle the kids to gymnastics or karate.

(You may notice here that pregnancy and I do not mix well. I freely admit that I fail spectacularly at pregnancy, and not just because I miscarry all the time. Also because I can barely function, I am completely undone physically by pregnancy. Some women breeze through it, glow and look beautiful and happy; I do not. I suffer, mightily, and I do not suffer alone. I make sure to drag everyone else along with me.)

Still, things are better. Lance and I are not talking a lot, but there are smiles, the occasional joke or kiss on the cheek. We still separate to our respective corners every day--me in the bed upstairs, Lance downstairs watching ESPN--but when he crawls into bed later he'll kiss me. When I stumble back into bed after my 5th trip to the bathroom and notice him there I drag my finger over his arm, or pat his back heavily before drifting back into deep slumber.

I actually think if that baby had survived, if I was still pregnant right now, we'd both be happy, we'd be anticipating to his birth equally. But of course he didn't, and so now we are in a different place altogether.

Hmm. I'm getting bored of this story. Aren't you? Good thing there are so many Blogher posts to read instead. I'm almost finished though. We're already up to, say, February, 2008. I'll do the rest later . .

Ugly is as ugly does

Originally I planned to write this from Lance's point of view. Or, at very least, I intended to show his side of the story. Obviously, it hasn't worked out that way so far. But I do want to be honest here, or as honest as I know how to be. I want to admit my own culpability, I want to own my part of the fallout. So here's a few things that may not be clear.

1. I am not a talker. I don't like to talk, especially about myself, especially about important things. My natural default is to claim everything is fine and change the subject. (Remember?) So, in the beginning, when Lance and I were "trying" to get pregnant, it was very easy for me to not discuss the elephant in the room. Yes, it was unfair for him to have repeated unsafe sex with me for months and then punish me when a pregnancy resulted, but also, I'm not an idiot. I knew what we were doing, and I knew he didn't really want a baby, I just decided to ignore that. I wanted the baby and I let the sex be his answer, instead of all the comments he was making about not wanting a third. So then it's not really fair of me to be surprised or hurt when he reacts exactly the way I knew he would.

2. Right about the same time all this was happening, we moved back into our house. We did an extensive remodel in 2006. Our mortgage doubles. Power and water bills go up by about 1/3. Lance works in sales for Cisco, and sometime that summer, they redid his compensation plan. His 'goal' is set much higher than it had been in 2006 and for the first time in a few years he is facing making less money than he did the year before. (As it turns out, he makes about 25% less in 2007. 2008 is worse.). The financial strain is great. I know this (I am the one who manages the money in our household), yet I refuse to consider its implications for our family. I refuse to accept that adding a third child will undoubtedly strain our budget to the extreme.

3. Remember how I said I'm not a talker? Well, after our Big Fight, I stopped talking altogether. I said nothing to him. Not good morning, not how was your day, not thanks for taking the kids, not wow, this morning sickness is kicking my butt. I went about my days, (spent mostly in bed) and absolutely ignored his presence. Some of that was unintentional, some of it was simply a result of feeling so sick that even talking took too much effort. Some of it was because I didn't want to hear anything he had to say. I didn't want to hear the word abortion again. But it was also intentional, it was also me punishing him for not being the husband I wanted him to be. And it got to be a habit. Ignoring him, feeling annoyed by him, wishing he were someone else. Then before I even realized what was happening I forgot how to be nice to him. I have not been nice.

If Lance were writing this story, he'd probably have about 10 more points here to add, times when I acted immaturely, where I shut down or shut him out, when I expected him to read my mind and punished him when he read it wrong. I am not the victim here. I am a fully invested participant and I want to make that clear to you--and to me. Lance may not be the husband I wanted, but I am certainly not the wife he envisioned either.

The one thing that has somehow remained constant: I still love him. He still loves me. Even when I was so busy hating him I couldn't even say his name without rolling my eyes, even then, I still loved him. I want to make this work, and he does too.

And so we keep keeping on.

I'll return to the story tomorrow maybe. I can't believe I'm only up to September 2007.

State of the Union

So, Lance. I haven't written much about Lance, because it's been so . . . difficult. It's such a long story, and it's complicated, and I don't know where to start. Well, here:

****
Christmas 2006

We are at Lance's best friend's house for dinner when we get the news: the newly married couple (you may remember their wedding), are pregnant, due in August.

Later, Lance turns to me, whispers,"I feel kind of inspired, don't you? Maybe we should do that, too."

"You mean---What? Really? Yes! Totally! Absolutely! We have to!" I am positively giddy, and fresh tears of joy prick the back of my eyelids. Never in a thousand years did I imagine he would agree to try for three.

The next day I make the appointment to have my IUD removed, and by late February, it is done.

****
We are driving to Disneyland, following Lance's best friend and his pregnant wife, plus another couple with two kids whom we all know.

"We'll have to get a new car", I say casually, glancing back at the kids in our Lexus SUV. "I don't think we can fit an infant car seat between their two." I am testing him, waiting to see if he is serious.

"The lease is up in a year I think, plus I need to sell my car. We'll figure it out."

I don't meet his eyes, afraid he will see the excitement in my eyes, afraid to scare him out of it. But I still can't quite believe it, so I add, "Wow, three. I don't know, I always thought two or four was better. Three was tough for me growing up. Should we have four?" Here I giggle, to let him know I am joking, to give him an out.

He doesn't answer, so I press on. "But I'm so old already, I just turned 37. God, I'd be 40 by then!"

And he says, "We could always adopt the fourth". I sneak a glance at him, sure that he is joking, but he is looking straight ahead, he is not smiling, he seems to be serious.


****
May 2007
We have been 'trying' for a few months. I put trying in quotes because it is unlike the trying we did before we conceived Isaac. We don't talk about it. I don't tell him my fertile times or give any indication that I hope the sex we are having might end in a baby. It seems very one-sided; the trying is all on my side. His side is just enjoying the sex. I don't want to rock the boat, I'm still terrified that the wrong move on my part will halt our efforts in their tracks, so I just go along, quietly.

Occasionally he makes comments that puzzle me: We clean out the garage, and he piles the old strollers together saying, "We should give this stuff to Alex." I don't answer, afraid of what he is saying, but that night we make love as usual and he doesn't pull out.

At dinner when my parents are in town I spill the beans that my best friend is recently pregnant with her 3rd. My parents are thrilled for her and my dad asks, "What about you two, would you ever consider a third?"
"No way", Lance says, emphatically. I reach over, rub my hands through his hair and smile, then say, "Well, you never know. Right, babe?" He doesn't answer.

June 2007
Earlier in the day Lance has again commented something to the effect of wanting only two kids. And yet here we are, in the evening, about to make love--about to make a baby. I stop what I'm doing, sit up.
"What are we doing? What is this? I don't understand you."
"What?"
"Why do you say things about not wanting a baby and then come home and have sex with me?"
"What else am I supposed to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you are giving me no choice. Either we have this baby or you resent me forever, right?"
"But I thought you wanted a baby."
"I never wanted another baby!"
This quickly degenerates into a shouting match with nothing resolved. A week later, we have sex again. No mention is made of babies or contraceptives.

July 2007
I am in Delaware with the kids, visiting my family. Lance is in California. I have a feeling that I am pregnant, but I have had this feeling for at least 3 months before and I have been wrong. And now I am terrified--if I am pregnant, Lance will freak out. That is a given. I try to avoid alcohol in the off chance that I am, but I'm with my family--we are a family that enjoys cocktail hour--and it is impossible to decline. My period is two days late. Finally I break down and buy a pregnancy test. I have to know, I have to stop drinking if it is true.
Two lines. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, I feel light-headed. I sit on the bathroom floor, holding the test in my hand, not sure what to think. I am ecstatic. I am terrified. I can't breathe. Quietly, quickly I run out to the hall and grab the phone, sneak back to the bathroom. I dial my best friend, the one who is also pregnant with #3.
"Susanna!" I am whispering because I don't want anyone in my parents' house to hear, but also because my voice is not working properly.
"I'm pregnant."
"What? Amy? Are you okay? I can't hear you."
"I'm pregnant"
She screams in joy and laughs, "Oh my god! I'm so glad! Yay! Oh my god! I can't talk I'm so happy!"
I smile for the first time and laugh, too, nervously. But she is so full of hope I can feel the terror subsiding and I start to consider the baby. The baby that I have been wanting so much. A baby! Those teeny tiny toes! And gummy grins! And sweet sweet smelling heads!

I make it through dinner with my family somehow, put the kids to bed, retire to my room. Now I am terrified again because I have to call Lance. I know his reaction will not be what I want. But surely once he gets over the shock he will be alright. He had to know this was going to happen eventually.

"I have some news".
"What?"
"I'm pregnant."
"What?"
"I'm pregnant."
(Long Pause)
"Are you there?"
(Pause)
"Lance? Hello?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm here."
"Um, what do you think?"
"What do I think? Hmm, well, I think this is the biggest mistake of my life."
"Come on, babe, it's not that bad. It will be fun. You love babies, too, remember? And it will be easy this time, we know what to do!"
"I have to go, I have to hang up."
"Lance--
he hangs up the phone.

August 2007
I am sick. So sick I can barely raise my head off my pillow. Food is disgusting, yet it is the only thing that makes me feel better. I stuff chips into my mouth constantly, chips and cookies and processed foods. I carry heated frozen pizzas to my bedroom and eat them while lying down. Every time I get up, I gag. I wake in the night, the nausea so bad I feel like I am on a sailboat. I eat bowls of cereal throughout the night, and I feel slightly better, enough to fall asleep for another hour. In the morning, I cannot look at Lance or the children. Their smell makes me gag. I am green and drawn, I need to eat something but everything sounds foul. There is a metallic taste in my mouth that will not go away. Twice, I forget to feed the kids breakfast before taking them to school. But I don't care. I just need to lie down. I drop them off, stop at McDonald's for french fries, come home to my bed.
It is the worst morning sickness of my life. This is my 6th pregnancy.

Because I am so sick, Lance and I barely talk. We have said maybe 100 words to each other since I announced my pregnancy. But I don't care. I am just trying to survive. Weekends and evenings, he takes the kids, without any prompting from me, to the beach, to the park, to his parents' house. Anywhere, away from the house, where I lie in bed, stuffing my craw with nachos and Popsicles.
"He's okay", I tell my friend Susanna, "he keeps taking the kids for me, I don't even have to ask him, it's actually kind of sweet".
Except it's not sweet, not really. Because he can barely look at me, and I know, on some level, he is taking the kids not to give me a break, not because he knows how terrible I feel, but because he needs to get out of the house too. My illness makes it impossible for him to pretend this isn't happening. He hates me.

Finally, one morning. He is working from home for some reason. The kids are in school. I come down to the kitchen to forage for some chocolate chips or macaroni and cheese. I don't remember how it starts, but it does. The biggest argument fight of our marriage. I am moody and irritable, I feel like shit and I spew: what is the matter with him, why can't he be happy, why is he acting like this is so terrible? He is not the one who feels like shit, he is not the one who can't sleep, what is his fucking excuse?
It is during this argument that the word abortion is thrown around, (though he completely denies it now) and I remember saying shouting "Well you better decide if you want to abort this baby now because I'm not doing it after 10 weeks!" "Thank you", he answers quietly, "thank you for considering that option."
I am 8-1/2 weeks pregnant. I call him all kinds of bad names, stalk back upstairs, cry on the bed for hours. Then stop, because I feel too terrible to concentrate on him and what he is thinking. I can only concentrate on feeling better.
For the next few weeks, again, we hardly speak. I don't care.

September 2007
We are in Canada, vacationing with my family. I am feeling slightly better, though I still have days where the effort of speaking to anyone seems impossible. Nothing tastes good, but at least I do not feel like I have to be in bed all the time. My family is annoyed, slightly, that I am not my usual self--they don't get to see me very often, and they want to have fun with me. But I am not drinking, I go to bed early, I take naps, I don't smile that much. I am annoying to be around. I can't water ski, I can't jump off Whiskey Rock, I can't participate as much as I'd like to, or as much as they'd like me to.
I can't help it. I do my best. I remind myself and everyone else that in April there will be a baby to show for it all. (I am due April Fool's Day, a sign if I ever knew one.) Lance and I don't talk much. I read a lot. The kids have a ball with their cousins, and I am grateful that they at least, are having fun. I am sure things will turn around for Lance and I once I feel better, once the baby comes, once he gets used to the idea. In the meantime, I shut him out, afraid of what he will say if we do talk. I wait until it gets better.

September 20th, 2007
We are back in L.A. I am 13 weeks pregnant, I am feeling much better. I had a CVS the week before and should have the results in a few days. I go in for my monthly OB appt.

No heartbeat.

Okay, I'll tell the rest later. Now you can see why I put off writing this for so long. It takes forever! And it is not a happy story. Actually, I'm not sure if this is making me feel better or worse. But thanks for listening, regardless.

Random thoughts

Okay. Sometimes I am very dramatic. The truth is that while I can't seem to make myself do all the things that would improve my marriage, I am still doing some of the things, on the good days at least. I do love him, I want to be married to him.

The other day a very wise friend said, "If you still love him and you know you want to be with him, then you have to figure out a way to be happy with him. You don't want to look back at this time in 30 years, when you are not upset anymore, and regret that you didn't make the most of it."

I'm not sure why the dark days are so dark, or why even on good days I am not able to muster up the sort of kindness he deserves, but I'm trying to work on it. I'm considering seeing a counselor. So there's that.

Also I've been meaning to write a post about Lance, about why he feels the way he does, or at least how he got there. It's percolating, and it will probably help me to write it, although sometimes thinking about him just makes me angry. We have a lot of forgiving to do, the two of us.

****

One of the things I've been trying to do, in an effort to accept my new four-person-family reality, is embrace the good things about NOT being pregnant. Embracing the alcohol has been easy, I've been succeeding wildly at that.

Next up, trying to reclaim my body. If I am not going to be pregnant, at least I can work on not being fat. I've got 10-12 lbs of spare tire thanks to the last year of pregnancy and it's really depressing trying to fit into summer clothes.

To that end, I started walking. (I have to start slow, I am embarrassingly out of shape.) So I walked for 30 minutes around the neighborhood and promptly got shin splints. Next I tried yoga, which I Tivo'd off the Oxygen network, and all I can say is, ouch. At least doing it at home means that I am the only witness to my humiliation. May I suggest, if you have a body like mine, that you wear a t-shirt, and not just a sports bra, while doing yoga? Because the sight of your huge, cottage-cheese speckled belly hanging over the band of your yoga pants while you white knuckle through the pyramid pose (or whatever it's called) is not so much motivating as it is horrifying. Trust me on this.

I also ordered Turbo Jam (a Sundry recommendation, just like the yoga) but I have not had a chance to try it, since I threw my back out this morning. Yes, I am extremely pathetic. Now I'm hobbling around like a granny in need of a walker and who knows when I'll be able to exercise again.

Body:1 3 billion; Amy:0.

*****
I am not sure what I'm doing here, blogging again. I don't feel like this is a permanent change for me, which is why I've felt so uncomfortable leaving comments at new-to-me blogs. I hate to forge a relationship with people, just to bail once I'm feeling less screwed up. I have been commenting some at old friends' blogs, but I just haven't yet fully embraced my position as a blogger again. So the new blogs make me feel shy. And I rather liked lurking, not feeling any obligation to comment, the last year or two when I wasn't sharing my life here.

All that as an apology. If you have left me a kind comment over the past few weeks, and I haven't reciprocated, I am sorry. It's not that I don't appreciate it, trust me, I appreciate it more than you know. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your words of wisdom and support.

Short

His relief is palpable. It enters the room before he does, a balloon that expands, filling up all the livable space, slowly pushing me out. So I slink away, holding my grief around me like armour, sharp edges that I scrape against his soft bubble of happiness. It does not pop, and I head to the bedroom where I can be alone with my pain.

His happiness cuts me like nothing else. Yet hurting him brings me no relief either.

My marriage is crumbling around me and I do nothing to stop it. I sit here and watch the pieces drop to the floor, make no effort to pick them up and patch the hole, and occasionally take my own swing at it, to hurry up the process.

Did you miss me?

Okay, so we're home. Back in L.A. where the sun is shining--although it's been cold this week, in the 60's, just when I was looking forward to some 80 degree weather. Damn. Delaware, per usual, was lots of fun, but it is always nice to come home. Home to my familiar bed, to our usual routine, to the comfort of the predictable.

(Also, very good to come home to this. All hail Tar Heel nation.)

The kids are in school, the laundry is done, the bills are paid and I--I went to the gym today. That's right. I returned to the place of my humiliation and not only ran on the elliptical machine for 21 minutes and 18 seconds but also did a complete round of the weight machines. It helped that I was the only person in there. It felt good. It still feels good, even though my tricep muscles are shaking. (And by muscles, I mean arm fat.)

I am completely out of touch with all of you because--despite the fake blog I set up specifically so I would have an excuse to be on the computer while I was in Delaware, I never seemed inclined to sit there for long. Too many nieces and nephews to laugh with, old friends to visit, dinners to make, parents to tease. Now that I'm home and have nothing much to do but take care of the kids and blog I'll be spending some more time with you. Though I've heard there is some sort of holiday coming up at the end of this month, so I might be a bit busy with that.

This reminds me: do you ever wonder what it's like to be a husband in December? Lance has to plan my birthday, but other than that, it's pretty much a regular month for him. No running around getting gifts, wrapping, cooking, decorating, etc. Fortunately for our marriage, I actually enjoy the bustle of December, so it doesn't bother me that our work loads this month are so lopsided. But if I was like my mother, and hated Christmas and all the activity it entails, December might be the reason Lance and I finally called it quits.

That's all I've got today, folks. It always takes a little while to get back into the swing of blogging after a hiatus. Hope everyone is well!

Love, Actually.

I'm not sure I ever told you, but Dr. Bite Me is out. You guys were right, and I should have listened to you in the first place. Did I ever tell you about Marriage Counseling: Session Three? Dr. Bite Me threw out this nugget of wisdom: "Well, if Lance wants to surf for 5 hours every day of your vacation, I think that is a non-negotiable. You want to let him do that, whether you think it's reasonable or not." Yeah, even Lance agreed that perhaps Dr. Bite Me did not have both of our interests equally at heart, after that. Not to mention, although occasionally Dr Bite Me did offer some good insight, he spent a lot of time talking himself, and I don't feel like paying good money to listen to some 50 year old misogynist pontificate. Know what I mean?

So. You were right. Now I just have to find someone else. (Lazy, lazy . . .)

You know what else? Things are much better, with Lance and I. I've been thinking about us lately, and the truth is, we've been through a lot, these past two and a half years. First, Vivian. I have alluded before to how difficult things were once she was born, and I'll repeat myself here. When Vivian was born, Isaac was a complete and utter maniac. I was totally unprepared to handle him and a newborn, especially a newborn so unlike the only other one I'd ever known (Isaac, who as an infant was a perfect angel). It was at least 3 months of utter hell, as I struggled and failed to be a good mother to both children, only getting slightly better when I gave up trying to be good and settled for at-least-I-didn't-kill-them-today. I did not handle those months with anything resembling grace, and I will say here that Lance didn't either. I felt like a failure all day long and he felt like a failure every evening, but at least he had work to escape to, and escape he did. To work, to ski vacations, to football games, anywhere but here. The resentment started there, I think.

Then, Vivian turned one, and at her birthday party that year, the whole nasty brother-in-law thing exploded. Just when we had gotten a handle on parenting two kids, we had something else to argue about. Something else that upset both of us, in different ways. That upset the people we loved, and we were powerless to stop it. The day after Vivian's birthday was Isaac first surgery, the one we thought would be so simple, the one before we had an accurate diagnoses. That one-two punch has been very difficult to navigate, and I don't think either one of us has shown any exceptional maturity or dignity in doing so.

I have been holding onto that resentment, the I-didn't-sign-up- for-this-parenting-thing-alone, the your-brother-is-an-ass-and-you-don't-do- anything-about-it, the why-the-fuck-is-this-happening-to-our-son-and-why- can't-you-make-it-better, the I-am-doing-everything-and-you-suck feelings-- and holding tight, for years. Clenching my jaw, tasting bile, steeling my eyes--that's how tight I've been holding on. I'm not sure why, except to say that I am a (perhaps deeply) flawed person.

But at least I finally realized what I was doing, and also realized how much it wasn't helping. I think at one point I felt that being angry at Lance was helping me in some way--at least when I was angry with him I didn't have to be sad, or blame myself, or bang my head against the wall. Anger, resentment, jealousy: all these emotions were infinitely better than actually dealing with the problems at hand. Giving up the anger would mean I'd have to let him in, admit how vulnerable and lost I felt, and I couldn't do that.

Now, things are better. The kids are in school 4 mornings a week. We haven't seen nasty boy in almost a year. Isaac's health still sucks, and it will still be an issue for years to come, but we are both trying to talk about it more, trying to accept it. And I have let go of all that crap. It was getting heavy, and my arms were tired.

It's not as if this happened quickly--I didn't wake up one morning and say, "oh! I know what the problem is in my marriage!" In fact, I couldn't pinpoint anything, any one moment or event that made a difference. Lance has adjusted his attitude too somehow, and I'm sure I have nothing to do with that. We just both seem to be swimming back towards each other now, instead of treading water at different ends of the pool, occasionally splashing water in each other's faces.

But I will say this: what a relief, to be able to smile when Lance comes home from work. How nice it is to call him--not with chores or accusations, but a simple question--do you want to go to the beach for dinner tonight?, followed by a quick and heartfelt "I love you".

No, it's not all gravy again, not yet. I am not a strong swimmer after all, and anyway, my arms were already tired from carting all that emotion around. (Fun with metaphors!) But it's getting better, and for that I am grateful. They always say that marriage is hard work, but for a long time I didn't believe that. Oh sure, sometimes Lance annoyed the crap out of me, but hard? Even in the midst of all the shit that went on these last few years, I don't think I would have admitted it was hard. I actually thought I was holding it all together, until a few months ago. But it is hard, and not because living with someone else is hard. It's hard because you have to be completely honest with yourself, you have to push through all your own bullshit, you have to call yourself when you're being a twit, and you have to mean it.

That's hard.

And totally worth it.



(No, not a flattering photo, but it seems apt, somehow.)

Love Letter

"Happy Anniversary, Amy!

8 years . . .wow! Who'd a thunk? Challenging as it seems at times, I wouldn't change it for the world. I love you. I love our family. I love our scenario and am excited for the future! Let's keep strong and prosper together for another 8 (and then some) years. I love you.

Lance"




(Speaks for itself, no?)

Further evidence that Lance is the better spouse (not that you needed any)

Actual text from email conversation.

Friend K to Amy: "Drinks or dinner? Anyone? Impromptu girls night? Shout out if you're in."

Amy to Lance: "Can you watch the kids?"

Lance to Amy: "This Friday? Are you crazy??? You think you can just tell me on a Wednesday you're gonna be out and leaving me with the kids on a Friday night?????
:) Yes, honey, of course. Have fun. Get drunk. Raise your skirt.
Party Hearty."

Brilliant, isn't he? In two paragraphs he manages to expose me for the nagging bitch I am while simaltaneously describing himself as the magnanimous giving partner.

Now you're all nodding your heads, thinking to yourself, "Of course. They are going to therapy for Lance's sake. Poor man. "

But I'm on to him.

(And--yay!--I'm going out tonight with grown-ups!)

Vacation, all I ever wanted

Bullets, because otherwise I will never get around to writing this post.

1. California is really an entirely different country from Delaware. At least, it should be. Everything is different, and I'm always struck by that whenever I go home. I've been going home now for 15 years, and I'm still struck by it. The smells are different: the flowers, the trees, even the factories produce aromas that you just don't find in L.A. The light is different: in Delaware there are trees--big, leafy trees--that filter much of the sunlight, while California has smaller, thinner trees, trees that don't take up so much space, that don't offer the same kind of shade. The clouds are different, too: Delaware has the big, puffy cumulus clouds, clouds that change over the course of a day or a week. Los Angeles doesn't have clouds to speak of, not really. The enormous uninterrupted expanse of blue sky that you see in L.A. almost every single day does not exist in Delaware. Of course the climate is different--it's humid in Delaware: thick, oppressive, sweaty heat. Wet heat that moisturizes your skin and plumps up dry limp hair like mine. Not the mild, dry heat you get out here. But most of all, the people are different. People look different in Delaware. I've been trying to figure out why for as long as I've been living on the other coast. Is it the haircuts? The clothes? The Phillies caps and the Tevas? The genealogy? Definitely less Mexican, more Puerto Rican. Less Hispanic in general and more African American. More Italian, I think--only maybe it's just that there are more Southern Italians in Delaware and more Northern Italians in L.A. I don't really know how to describe this, but there is a "look" to people that I recognize the minute I get off the plane in Philadelphia, a "look" that feels as familiar to me as my mother's potato salad. Maybe it has nothing to do with genealogy and everything to do with me, and my nostalgia for home; I'm just not sure. But it fascinates me, every time I go home.

2. I love my family, all of them: my five aunts and uncles on my mother's side and their spouses and children, my two living grandmothers, my parents, my siblings, my brother-in-law, my niece and nephew. Even the 3 aunts and uncles on my fathers' side, who we rarely see, I have no issues with them. We have our typical family squabbles, but there is no high drama. However. However, I am very very glad to live 3000 miles away, and not only because I am afforded prodigal daughter status whenever I go home. Also because I have this very strong feeling that if I lived less than a mile from my parents, the way my sister does, I would not love my family nearly the same way. And they would not love me, either. My parents can be prickly; let's just leave it at that.

3. Lance and I do not get along around my parents. After 8 years of marriage and countless visits to my folks, we have not yet figured out how to appreciate each other the same way we do when we are in L.A. I'm sure part of me reverts to adolescent behavior when I'm around family, but Lance is also guilty. He feels threatened by how much I miss home and ends up acting snide and irrational when at home he'd be making jokes. Knowing that he feels threatened somehow does not translate into me toning down my "oh, I wish we had lightning bugs in California" comments but instead ratchets them up a notch. ( I've been known to complain that California doesn't have mosquitos--there's something I need to see a therapist about.) My mother loves to play "pick one child and gang up on them" games (no doubt learned in a childhood shared with 5 siblings) and Lance is thrilled to play along, especially if Amy is the victim. Lastly--and this one deserves a post of its own, but god knows when I'll get to it, since it requires retrospection and thought, something in short supply at the POW household lately--I seem to have married my father. And two controlling guys, used to having their own way, do not always mesh seamlessly. Throw in Lance's passive-aggressive tendencies and my own shrill, defensive and critical behavior and all is not always fun.

4. I'd love to talk about FFB here, but since he occasionally reads this blog (thanks again, Lance!) I guess I can't relay how annoying it is that he refuses to share his every thought and emotion with the rest of the clan. How, duh!, we all just want the best for him and why can't he just tell us what he's thinking so we can all dissect it to bits until we've solved all of his problems for him, without asking his permission. I will say that it's always, always great to have him around, and even if he doesn't feel the same way about the rest of us, we still smile bigger whenever he's in town. (Is this how it always is with the youngest? The youngest, the most loved, the one who doesn't necessarily return the love, he is the one we all want to be with? Is that why he doesn't share things with us? Because our love, our need, our want is too strong? FFB, elaborate.)

5. Isaac learned to swim. He can't lift his head to take a breath on his own yet, but he can easily swim 5 feet or more all by himself. I can't tell you how pleased I am about this, not least of all because we didn't have to attend any classes for this to happen. Vivian, of course, is not about to put her head under water, though she will blow bubbles on demand, and likes to float along the top step of the bubble yelling "Watch me! Watch me, Mommy, I swimming!!"

6. My sister lives less than a mile from my parents. (Did I mention?) Yikes. She is a saint. An occasionally opinionated, rigid, anal saint, but a saint nonetheless*. Though, she makes my niece and nephew do schoolwork during the summer. Isn't there some law against that? Shouldn't there be?

7. We spent a week at the beach in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My parents own a rental property there, and for the last 4 or 5 years, my dad has allowed us to spend time there during the season. This is huge, as for the 15 years he owned the property before that we were only allowed to stay there during the winter, when it's cold and windy and there's nothing to do. We had a great time, and Lance couldn't complain about there feeling "claustrophobic" because he's so far away from the ocean. (God.) My niece, who is 9, loved babysitting, and my kids worshipped their older cousins (my nephew is 10). This made for a sometimes relaxing vacation, which those of you with toddlers know is an oxymoron.

8. Why can't my best friend--you know, one of the ONLY close friends I have with children--live on the West Coast? Why must she persist in staying in Delaware, so that I can't run over to her house with Vivian whenever I need a distraction? Her daughter is Isaac's age, and her son is the cutest two month old you've ever seen, and now I will not see them again until Christmas. Bah.

*If my sister had a blog, I can only imagine the adjectives she might use to describe me. (Clueless? Self-absorbed? Not-very-smart?)

And now, pictures:

Vivian and her cousin Sawyer, in the matching Lilly dresses my mother snuck out and bought, careful to remove the price tag before she presented them. Wasn't I talking about grandmotherly excess just the other day?



My best friends'** kids and my kids--don't they look like they'd all be great friends? If only we lived closer . . .


Isaac, jumping off the diving board. (Hmm, maybe you didn't actually need a description here. Uh, that's my nephew, Kitchel, standing on the side. There.)



. . and swimming:



Three generations (me, my mom, her mom, my sister):



At the beach:


**Don't worry, Heidi, you are also my best friend!

Date Night

My in-laws live a mere 8 miles from us, so they frequently take the kids when we need a break. However, they live in the valley, which means we have to drive 6 miles on the 405 freeway to get to their house. The 405 freeway must be the most congested freeway in the country. During rush hour, it can take 2 hours to drive those 6 miles.

As a result, we have to plan our babysitting adventures in advance. If Lance and I want to go out to dinner, I need to get the kids over to my in-laws' house before 2pm (in time for their naps and before rush hour starts). We generally let them spend the night, and then I pick them up around 9:30 or 10am, after the morning rush has passed. The kids are with their grandparents for almost 24 hours, which is great for me, though it does also mean that we don't ask for this service too often. It probably happens about once every two months, sometimes during the week, sometimes on the weekend. (We do have a babysitter to call in the event that the in-laws can't do it.)

Last night was one of those nights. A friend had emailed me a flyer about a benefit for a pre-schooler who had recently been diagnosed with a rare kind of cancer. A restaurant offered to donate all its profits Tuesday night to the the family. Rare night out for Lance and I plus a good cause--it seemed like a win-win to me, especially when my in-laws agreed to take the kids.

Lance and I so rarely spend quality time together without the kids these days, you'd think that any date night would be fabulous. Somehow, it doesn't always work out that way. We argue, or have trouble connecting. We drink too much or bring up the wrong topics. Somebody orders the wrong entree, the wine is too expensive, I forget my wallet. Or I don't know, the sky is blue and somehow it ruins the evening. I'm not saying that happens every date night, but it does happen, and more frequently than it seems like it should.

Yesterday after I dropped off the kids, I came home to a beautifully clean house thanks to Lucrecia, our life-saving house-keeper. I had the entire afternoon free, and I spent it reading blogs, finishing a novel (good!), laying in the yard, and fixing some chicken salad with the leftovers from the night before. So peaceful and easy, so pleasant. Around 4:30 I took a relaxing shower, then blew my hair dry and put on an outfit I haven't worn in a year or so. On a whim, I put on a pair of heels I haven't worn since the wedding I bought them for 3 years ago. (I have a bad back, and only wear heels at special occasions, maybe once or twice a year).

Lance came home shortly thereafter, and his face lit up when he saw me.

"Why are you so smiley?" I asked him.

"It's not often I come home to a quiet house, my wife all dressed up and looking relaxed and refreshed, with no kids running around."

That's how the whole evening went. We were thrilled to be with each other. We laughed and talked easily, we didn't think about the kids at all. The food was fine--not fantastic, but it didn't even matter. There was a kind of electricity between us that hasn't been there in ages. We were eager to get home for "other activities", but we also wanted to keep talking forever. It felt like an actual date, the kind you have before you get married. It felt incredibly nice.

I wish all our date nights turned out as well. Having the afternoon to myself really helped. Being able to get myself ready without refereeing the kids' arguments, fixing their dinner, & being sure the babysitter had everything she needed helped too. Often by the time we get in the car, I'm already resenting Lance for not helping me in the exact way that I want him to, so it was nice to feel nothing but anticipation for a change. Also, the combination of heels plus the color I got at the beach this weekend made me feel surprisingly sexy and confident. To top it off, it's summer, and summer always makes me happy.

What a perfect evening!

Will I ever do a real post again?

Random bullets, ala Phantom.

1. Last night we took the kids up to the neighbors' house for a bbq. I drank two beers and 3 margaritas. I actually had bed spins as I was trying to fall asleep. I haven't had bed spins in 15 years. I feel like roadkill this morning.

2. Bed spins.

3. I have no memory of getting the kids into pajamas and bed last night. It's a miracle we ended up in the right house. At some point, I also folded the laundry, so I can't complain too much.

4. Hooray for long weekends. We had two days of spectacular weather this week and now it's back to grey. I hope to God it clears up soon. We are attending a pool party tomorrow, where I was hoping both kids would miraculously learn to swim, so that I won't be forced to don a bathing suit for swimming lessons at the local pool.

5. Tonight I'm going with Heidi over to the bride's house for some girl time--wine, snacks, gossip. I've been looking forward to it all week--except, roadkill and all.

6. At every meeting we have with our architect we discuss budget. After 6 months of planning, the architect now believes that the house he has designed will be way beyond our financial scope. There is no way to cut back on the design without losing the aesthetics of the house. So it's back to square one.

7. Because my husband is a saint, he got the kids dressed, put Vivian in front of Nemo, and took Isaac to pre-school this morning so I could nurse my hangover. He left me his car, which is great, except it has no carseat in it. I shouldn't really call him and complain, should I? Do you think Vivian will be okay if I leave her here while I get some coffee? I really, really need coffee.

8. Lance just came home with the car so I decided to run over to Annika's house with the lasagne I made for her yesterday. Except that I live in L.A., you know, so the 12 mile drive took 30 minutes which meant I was running late to pick Isaac up at pre-school. She opened the door, I threw the lasagne at her, yelled "what a cute baby!" and left. Nice. He is a cute baby, though. So tiny! So sweet!

9. Tequila, elixir of Satan.


(10. I just came home after a doctor's appointment to see what you lovely people had to say about my bed spins and--surprise!--nothing is posted. How can that happen? There's this little button called "publish post", see, and you have to click on it. Oh my pretty pretty braincells, I'm miss you already.)

Annoying.

That in the time it takes my pretty pretty husband to shave and shower, I have gotten myself dressed, changed Vivian's diaper and dressed her, helped Isaac pee and dressed him, made both of their breakfasts and helped them eat, brushed their teeth and gotten them into their carseats.


More Annoying:

When he says, "Oh, do you need some help?", AFTER all the aforementioned tasks have been completed.

So long.

I've been trying to write a post all week, about what a great weekend I had last weekend. How we had dinner with Heidi and her new man, and turns out he's pretty fucking good. How Lance took the kids Saturday which allowed me to go to the mall by myself and actually purchase some garments that look half-way decent on me. How Sunday night we had a impromptu dinner party with some friends, friends who are getting married this weekend. How we are going to San Diego this weekend, for the aforementioned wedding, and how we are leaving the kids with grandma.

But it's been busy, and now it's Thursday night, tomorrow's going to be crazy, and the kids are clamoring for dinner, so. So that's it, that's what's going on.

I'll leave you with this little tidbit from the pieceofwork household:

Scene: 4:30pm. Lance has come home early from work so I can get my nails done before we leave for the wedding tomorrow.

Vivian: Daddy! Daddy! I want to paink*!

Isaac: HI DADDY!!

Me: Hey, babe.

Lance (on the phone): looks up, big smile, holds up a finger in the universal "just a second" sign.

Isaac: I want to paink!

Vivian: No! NO! I want to paink! Mommy! I want to paink!

Isaac: Only Isaac can paint, Vivi. You will get your fingers messy.

Me: Hold on. Everyone's going to paint. You guys sit down at the table, I'll get the paints.

Lance: on the phone.

Isaac: Where's my paink brush? Oh, there it is. Thank you, Mommy! I love to paink with the painks we got at the store called Sav on.

Vivian: Paink! Paink! Paink!

Me: where is the other paintbrush? (Rummaging around the craft/dinner table) Isaac, where is the paintbrush? Is it in here? Did you put it in your room?

Vivian: Paink! Paink!

Lance: Hey sweetie.

Vivian: Paink! Paink! Daddy paink!

Lance: What did you do today?

Isaac: I want to paink! You can't paink, Vivi, Mommy can't find the brush.

Me (calling from the bedroom where I am searching for the paintbrush)**: Everyone's painting, Isaac. Be nice to your sister!

Vivian: MOMMY! Mommy! I want to paink!

Lance (entering our bedroom, where I am now rummaging for the paintbrush): what are you doing?

Me: Looking for the paint brush!

Lance: Paint brush? What do you need that for?

Me: Do you even LIVE here?


*This is the way both my children say paint. I don't know why.

** How is it possible that I have only two paintbrushes in the entire house? How?

Tattoo Meme

I know I said I hate memes, and actually part of the reason I'm posting this is to get that last one way down out of sight, but this one is kind of fun. I read about it over at Mommy needs a Martini. If you've got a tattoo, let's see it, and hear all about it.

My one and only tattoo I had done in the summer of 1996. I was newly in love with Lance then, and tattoos were all the rage. I wanted one desperately but I couldn't figure out what to get. I considered the UNC symbol, but was (fortunately) talked out of it. Finally I decided on a compass, and Lance drew it for me to take into the tattoo parlor. It's on the inside of my right hip, just above the groin, 95% below the bikini line. At first, the artist didn't want to put it there--she said that area was too sensitive for a first tattoo, and it would be better to put in on my shoulder. But I wanted it above the groin--I like the trashiness of a compass directing people to that area of my body--and eventually she agreed to it. And it did hurt, but I will admit there was a bit of pleasure too. Hard to explain, but I liked the sensation.

I know some people regret their tattoos, but I love mine. It reminds me of being young and in love. It reminds me of Lance. It reminds me of San Francisco and the wonderful time I had there when I was just a youngster. Also, because of its location, nobody knows about it, so I don't have to give a lot of explanations. You can see the top of it when I wear a bikini, but that's the only time it's visible.

Conversation, 1:34 am

Isaac, from his room: Mom? Mommy. Mommy?

Me: Umph.

Isaac: Mommy! Mommy! Wahhhhhhh, mooommmmy!

Me, sighing heavily, heaving myself out of bed and into his room: Shhh, sweetie, it's okay. Don't wake Vivi up.

Isaac: Wahhhhhh!

Me: Shhh! Quiet, sweetie! What's wrong? What is it? Oh--what? What happened?

Isaac, whispering: I need another slinky*, Mommy. Please can I have another?

Me: How did that get so wet? Whoa, how is your bed so wet? Oh, Isaac, you're soaked.

I pick him up and bring him into our room as he starts wailing again. Pull off his sopping wet pajamas to reveal underwear. Isaac is potty trained, but not at night. At night, he still needs an overnight diaper to hold in all the pee.

Me: Lance! Lance! Wake up! Why didn't you put him in an overnight?

Lance: Huh? Um. Ooph.

Me, swearing under my breath: Jesus. Here, Isaac, let's put on some new pjs.

I get him dressed and put him into our bed, knowing this will mean no sleep for me. He insists on sleeping horizontally across the bed, and refuses covers, which puts me teetering on the edge of the bed, shivering. Better than changing his sheets at this hour, though, especially since I won't be able to do that without waking his sister.

Isaac: snore

Lance: snore

Me, as I climb into bed, attempt to move Isaac into a better position and wonder if I should go grab a sweatshirt: Mutter, mutter, heavy sigh.

Vivian: Mommy? Where are you, Mommy?

Me: Shit!



*'slinky' is what we call the kids' blankies around here--it's a bastardization of "silkie", which is what they are officially called.

Happy Birthday

Last Friday night, as I mentioned, I had a date with my husband, to celebrate his 35th birthday. First we went to a new hip spot for a drink, then on to a fancy French restaurant for dinner, which has received rave reviews, despite being extremely expensive . I expected the bill to be high, but I figured it might be the last fancy dinner we have for awhile if we do the remodel, so we might as well go out in style.

Here's where I say: We went. And had a fabulous time. We talked all night, and laughed, and gazed adoringly into each other's eyes. We chewed our precious, delicate morsels of French cuisine and drank our superior French wine and thought of nothing but love and ripping the clothes off each other as soon as we got back to the car.

Except, that's not what happened. Oh, the bill was high. The food was French, and quite good, actually. The service was impeccable and not a bit snotty, as you might expect. But the laughing, the adoring gazes, the fire of the loins--all these things were overshadowed by the incredibly frustrating argument that we got into over--what else?--my brother-in-law, Brad.

I will not go into the particulars here, as it might bore you to tears if you weren't already crying, and furthermore, there is no way to resolve the argument as it just IS WHAT IT IS. I must accept that, and I am having difficulty doing so, and there, I told you the particulars one millisecond after I told you I wouldn't.

Anyway. This is not a post about my fucking brother-in-law. There have been far too many of those on these pages, and I think I should declare the interwebs Brad-free, just to save the rest of you from my agony. Nothing more about him, ever. EVER.

After our argument (although, if truth be told it was much more of a FIGHT than a simple argument), we came home and retreated to the respective corners of our queen size bed. Saturday was spent mostly avoiding the issue, not angrily, but just resignedly. By Saturday evening we could watch the Carolina game together with joy in our hearts, although nothing had (or ever will be) resolved.

Aside: I don't believe in that old rule which says you should never go to bed angry. Sometimes I am so angry that nothing is going to dissuade me from my path, and, especially if there is alcohol involved, it works much better for me to sleep on it. Then I can wake up with a clear head (relatively speaking, of course) and perhaps see things from another point of view. Or at least there is that potential the next day, when often there isn't, the night before.

On Sunday morning, we woke up, packed up the kids and headed down to the beach club, stopping at the grocery store on the way. Once there, I made everybody breakfast, and then we played in the sand for awhile, even venturing down to the ocean for little bit. We wore the kids out, fed them lunch, took them home for naps, and I ran out to the store again. Made Lance a cake, cooked a nice risotto with some grilled fresh salmon. It was a really nice, lazy, easy day, with none of the leftover angst we'd had on Saturday.

I love my husband. I love him more than I express on these pages, more than I am capable of expressing. I hate more than anything that we allowed Brad to interfere with what should have been a celebratory birthday evening.

But you know what? In the end, it doesn't matter. Yes, the fight about Brad disrupted our dinner. We went to bed dissatisfied with each other (in more ways than one); we spent the next day licking our wounds in private, unable to communicate happily with each other; but soon enough we emerged, unscathed.

And isn't that something? Just having that knowledge, a small nugget of goodness that I can hide away in my pocket, that I can store somewhere next to my soul: even Brad's craziness can't derail us. He can disrupt us--as can many other people/things/events--but he can't ruin us. We are so much stronger than that.

I don't say it enough, and I don't even think it enough, consciously. There is no one I would rather spend my minutes with. No one I would rather parent my children with. No one I would rather jump in the boat with. Here is a man I found on the whim of a blind date, 10 years and 1 month ago, a man who loves me completely, who argues with me passionately, and who forgives me easily. Serendipity; luck; karma--call it what you will. Who am I to deserve this man?

Daily, I am blown back off my feet by the incredible power of my love for my children. Daily, I gaze at them in wonder and awe, and feel humbled by just the fact of them. These perfect, unbelievable beings, beings whose very existence cause the earth to turn on its axis. This doesn't happen as often with Lance. But it should.

It should.