I like our cat, as far as cats go. He's huge, runs our small pony/dog and is generally friendly, although absolutely Wolf's pet. Probably cause Wolf does the feeding/litter issues. And I'm good w/that.
Is it wrong then, that the 1 time (we know of) that Jack the Cat caught a mouse...Wolf's indignation that his cat a) didn't eat the darned thing and b) left it in his clean laundry basket, btwn a pair of socks...
I laughed til I cried. Where Wolf couldn't hear me, of course. Diva wasn't that controlled, and laughed in front of Daddy, and was treated to a chorus of, "That's not funny! My socks stink now!" which only fuelled my hurry to leave...like, jet propelled. Upstairs, behind a door, face in a pillow, shrieking with laughter.
And I'm still snickering.
Oh, and a note...on my tag labels, 'humour' and 'husband' are one word apart. Coincidence? I'm thinking not so much...*runs*
I'm in tears.
I talked to Wolf about having another baby. Its something that's been on my heart for a long time. We're far better off financially than when we had Tazzie and Princess.
Wolf admitted that the only reason he doesn't want another baby is because of my disability.
Just one more thing that RSD has stolen from me.
I know all the arguments. I'd have to go off all my meds. The pain would be roaring. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and I'd be willing.
I'm praying that God either takes this longing from my heart, or places it on Wolf's too.
It hurts too da*n much.
Most women (and therefore, most men) have a someone in their past...The 'What Might Have Been Man' is what I think of it as. Unless you married your first love, there's likely at least one WMHB when you look back on your life so far.
Funny enough, my WMHB was my first love. I was all of 14, he was 17. We broke up over a stupid, stupid issue, all my fault. But it didn't end there. Years later we got in touch again, at my instigation. And, believe it or not, I was too stupid to realize that he was dating me again. The man would drive an hour and a half to come 'hang out', and I didn't realize we were dating. D'oh! (Hey, I'm book smart, not life smart...at least not then, and probably not as much as I could be now, despite all of my varied experiences.)
Even after he was married, we kept in touch...again, my doing. Nothing major, a phone call when Diva was born (not his, btw, just a call anyways), an email here and there...last time was over a year, probably two years ago.
So, my WMHB has been a presence in my life, but not recently. We live across country from one another now, so I suppose that's why email was safe.
Here's the worst thing of it: I know, in my heart, that I still love my WMHB. Not with all my heart, but with a part of it...he was the first person in my life to have treated me with any respect, caring. I was important. It was a heady feeling for a girl that grew up as I did.
Problem is...I'm not his wife. Never have been, never will be. I need to let go of my WMHB, and give everything I am to my husband. To do less is robbing him, and our children, of everything our marriage could be.
You'd think that not having had contact with WMHB for a cpl of years would have made this a moot point. Not so much...not when a vivid dream has you in tears the next morning. The realization that a part of my heart was still so wrapped up in WMHB was devastating to me on many levels. Even, if I'm to be completely honest, at the idea of giving it up, letting it go. That feeling of being loved, securely, being safe, protected, unwavering devotion is something that I've never known before WMHB, or since.
But how could I possibly, if I'm measuring unconsciously against WMHB? Yes, he's a real person, but any idea is now a fantasy, if that makes sense.
I'm looking over my shoulder instead of at what's in front of me right now, and to the future.
Here's the really, REALLY ironic part: my husband shows his devotion to me daily. He takes care of me, in such a careFULL manner. Goes out of his way to bring me something special, just cause. Scrubs the walls because it makes me nuts that they're dirty, but I can't manage it on my own. Lets me sleep whenever I need it, encourages me to go out of the house when I don't feel like I can, but need the break...he's an Action/Service kind of person. I've always been a Touch person. Learning to appreciate my husband as he is, rather than what I *think* I need has been an awakening experience. I've been told, time and again from those outside our relationship how lucky I am. Heck, just the RSD issue...many marriages break up within a year of such a diagnosis. Here we are, at two years in, still going strong, probably stronger in many ways than we've been before.
So, here I stand, at the threshold of a decision, one that needs to be made, committed to. Today, I say good-bye to my WMHB, in my mind, my heart. I'm sure I'll find a way to be able to treasure memories from the past instead of daydreaming (or night dreaming) about changing the facts of it. To thank my WMHB for being who he was and is, but to let go, and dedicate myself wholly to my husband.
I don't know why I have a lump in my throat now, or eyes brimming with tears...perhaps because wondering, dreaming, thinking of WMHB has been such a part of me for so long.
I feel as I should apologize to my husband for this...a form of emotional cheating, even though its been just in my head, and any contact with WMHB was with the knowledge of my husband...but I need to let go.
Ridiculous, isn't it? That a single dream can bring all of this out? Some would say that its just a dream, no big deal...until the emotions spilled out, on to my waking life. Sometimes dreams are more than just dreams...and its time to say good bye to this one.
Good bye, WMHB. I loved you. And that teen girl always will. But the adult me needs to say good bye and mean it, and keep it and live it.
Goodbye.
Ours was last Saturday.
Hard to believe that its been only seven years in some ways, hard to believe that its been as long as seven years in others, if that makes sense.
Normally we try to follow the traditional gifts, but wool in April just doesn't work 
So, I bought Wolf a watch. Its nice enough to use as a dress watch (assuming we ever go anywhere ) and sturdy enough that he could wear it to work and it would be ok. I had the back engraved: "7 years and still ticking! Love The Wife" Guy looked at me funny for that, lol!
Wolf bought be a lovely pair of Peridot earrings with diamond chips encircling the stone, and a jewelery box. I was very surprised, and I guess it showed.
He looked sheepish and said, "I know you don't like your birthstone, but I wanted to replace the earrings my sister stole."
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww!
He's right. I hate my birthstone. When he gave me the first pair for my 30th birthday, he said, "I couldn't remember if you loved or hated your birthstone, just that you had a strong reaction to it." So yeah, I do hate Peridot, but love him...so the earrings were precious, and I wore them a lot until they went 'missing', later spotted being worn by my SIL.
The reason I don't like my birthstone is that its the colour or pus. Or snot. Blech.
He's so happy I haven't taken them off, even to the point of prompting me to show the nurse that comes out every Friday.
Yeah. Stuff like this explains a lot of why we've made it seven years. 
While the title is appropriate, I now have that David Bowie song in my head. And I've never even liked the song! *sigh*
There have been some changes around the Stepford Home. Literally around the home...or in it.
Wolf *finally* got around to moving some furniture that I've been begging him to do. I now suddenly have THREE bookshelves in my homeschooling/computer area. Not only do I have all my books out on the shelves, but room for more! It makes my book junkie heart race with delight, lol!
Also, much to the delight of the entire family, we ditched the three legged table to the basement and moved the table that had been holding my printer and file boxes into the kitchen. I wish someone could explain to me how it is that once Wolf moved the broken table downstairs, he FIXED the dang thing. Why couldn't he have done that, oh, say THREE MONTHS AGO when the table leg initially fell off? I swear, I just don't understand the man.
He also rearranged the living room. We suddenly feel like we have a larger home to be honest.
Its funny how rearranging furniture can rearrange attitudes. For the first time in I don't know how long, we're all eating at the kitchen table. Like, for every meal. It used to be that we'd eat in front of the tv. *waiting for all the gasping and 'tsk tsk' to die down* Hey, I did say this was the NON Stepford blog, right? Never did I claim perfection in anything.
While the Flylady would die of mortification and shame, I'm finding it much easier to keep the house clean with this new arrangement. Yeah, still one armed, my sink isn't shiny, I don't have shoes on...heck, I haven't even brushed my hair yet this am, but I'm feeling better about the house.
Here's the biggest shock of all: I'm not drinking coffee any more. I know! Me, the person who swore that you'd only get my Timmie's cup away from me by prying it from my cold, dead hands is no longer drinking coffee!
It wasn't intentional. I got hit with some sort of weird illness on Saturday. (It never fails. Ever since I was a kid, I'd get sick before/after/during an anticipated event...Hallowe'en, Christmas, etc. Or one of my brothers would.) I lay shivering under several blankets, looking like death...without a costume or make up. I don't mind looking like death warmed over for Hallowe'en, I usually consider that a triumph of my theatrical makeup skills, but this wasn't intentional, and therefore, completely unappreciated by me.
And its left me unable to stomach coffee. I just can't do it. I've tried, honest! I've finally made the switch to tea, so I could get my caffeine fix. Sorry, but I just cannot stomach Coke or any other caffeinated soft drink in the am. Caffeine must be delivered via a hot beverage.
I don't even own a tea pot, for pity sakes. I'm nervous about anyone from the government reading this, since I'm fairly certain that lack of a teapot is grounds for revoking my Canadian citizenship, declaring me American, and shipping me across the border.
While I love my American friends, I can't live in the States. No Timmies, no Smarties, and I've heard that our Oreos are better for some odd reason.
****PSA ANNOUNCEMENT****
If you boil water, add it to your mug with a tea bag in it, wander away, get distracted by kids and blogging, it WILL turn into a substance suspiciously similar to lye.
Just a friendly heads up.
*******
So, I guess I need to go get a teapot soon, before the government tracks me down. And a proper kettle. I'm using a flipping sauce pan to boil water.
In my new tea drinking defence, I'm drinking Red Rose. None of that decaffeinated-herb-ground-mouse-toe stuff.
I should also mention that I was astounded by how much CRAP we got rid of over the weekend. I'm talking about SIX garbage bags full. And BIG garbage bags. I didn't even know we had that much stuff, let alone crap! Holy decluttering, Batman!
I told my gf K, it feels like we're gearing up for a move. To be honest, that's usually when we declutter and ditch stuff, because both Wolf and I have a bit of a pack rat tendency.
The one thing that does worry me is that he ditched a whole slew of baby gear. Toys, clothes...He isn't completely daft, and did keep the bassinet and swing. I've warned him before that getting rid of baby gear tends to guarantee conception. It happened before. When Tazzie was around eight months old, Wolf got rid of his swing, and a few other things. Boom, I was pregnant with Princess before Tazzie's first birthday.
He's hoping that keeping the bassinet and swing will be enough to ward off the stork. I'm thinking its only bought us time, lol!
So, there's us at the moment. In my next post I promise to tell you about the Incredible Eating Machine.
This is what I need to tell my husband. I know, I know, there are women out there that would give an appendage for a husband that cleans house.
But not the way Wolf does it.
He throws everything in the garbage that *he* doesn't think is important. Stuff he *does* think is important he stuffs in a box, or on my desk/homeschooling area. Then, of course he nags me about the mess my desk/homeschool area is. *sigh*
I cannot FIND things when he 'cleans'. Case in point, I can't find the reimbursement form for Diva's homeschool stuff. I've looked everywhere, and nope. The entire 'welcome package' we were sent, including a computer disc, has vanished. *Poof* Heaven only knows where the heck it is.
I've already called and thrown myself on the mercy of the folks at the school board, and they're emailing me some files (as soon as they can figure out how to make them smaller, because apparently my email doesn't like the current size of the files) so that I can at least get the reimbursement done.
All I can say to the women whose husband's don't clean is to be careful what you wish for...because one day, he might.
I've finally figured out WHY I'm the Non Stepford Wife model.
Its my kids' fault. And, by DNA responsibility and other issues, my husband's.
But definitely the kids.
Lets start with the fact that there isn't a parenting manual in existence that deals with the issues I face on a regular/daily basis.
Take today for example. There isn't a parenting manual on the shelf that deals with potty training a la non-Stepford style. Princess has been 'sorta' trained for about a year. The 'sorta' parts come in when she will not ever wear anything on her butt. Initially, putting underwear on this kid had her screaming like I'd dipped her in acid. And not the funky hippie dream, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds acid either.
Sooooooo, we let her go bare butt in the house. Never an accident.
But the problem arises when its time to go somewhere. Yes, even homeschoolers take their kids out. Occasionally.
Put a diaper on her, she uses it. Usually in the worst, smelliest, leakiest way possible. I know there are other moms that read this blog, so I know I don't need to get any more detailed than that. Same with disposable so-called training pants. Training my left foot! Only training that occurred was when I had to teach/train Wolf that they rip down the sides, you don't have to slide a poop filled training pants down her legs. Lets all take a moment for a group shudder at the visual that sentence produced. *shudder*
Until.
I found a no name brand disposable training pant that had PRINCESSES on it. From my Princess' all time favourite movie(s), Shrek 1-3. Well now. Defiling those were obviously a no-no. *cue angels singing*
Of course, me being me, didn't figure this out ahead of time, and neglected to buy out the entire in store stock (they were even on sale). However, the bridge between 'bare butt' and 'scream like a banshee' has been bridged, and she will wear underwear now. *cue angelic chorus*
But only if they're pink. With flowers. aka 'pretty'. *headdesk*
Sigh.
I figure that she'll be in normal underwear about a week before she turns 21, and then will be demanding thongs a week after THAT.
In the meantime, I have a three year old that appears out of nowhere, panties around her ankles, announcing "I pooped!", handing me a roll of toilet paper, and bending over. All my other kids had the grace to simply holler at the top of their lungs for help from the bathroom. Not her. *sigh*
Take that, parenting manual. Never read THAT being discussed.
Its not just my youngest either. Tazzie, at 4, has been known to listen to me, cock his head to the side with a puzzled look, and tell me, "I just can't visualize that, Mom." and walks off.
Seriously.
And, the most psyche scarring event of all occurred with Diva, my eldest daughter today. I.Had.To.Teach.Her.To.Shave.
I may never recover. I literally crawled into Wolf's lap, shaking.
(As an aside, why do men think the cure to psychological scarring is them receiving...uh...personal attention? Or is it just my dh?)
As my ever helpful husband said, "At least it was just under her arms. She could have been asking about bikini---" He wasn't allowed to finish that sentence.
Parenting manuals at the Non-Stepford home...best used as paperweights. Or to start fires...if we had a fireplace. *sigh* And I could use some help, dang it!!
Ewww boy.
MIL called yesterday. She was trying to force her way into staying with us for another wknd. Wolf told her that we haven't addressed all the issues she had with our home, so that wouldn't be possible. She told him that she didn't know what he was talking about, so he let her have it with both barrels.
He told her that all she did all wknd was criticize. She even had issues with the children watching Magic School Bus, because it was *gasp* Magic. He informed her that it was an excellent science show that the Littles enjoyed, it was merely a tool being used for their education, and unless she saw dragons and Satan, it wasn't evil.
She protested that, "SHE wouldn't let them watch the dvd *I* sent!" Which set Wolf off again, explaining that a) sending our son a dvd with the 'Demoniac Boy' on it was inappropriate b) the age levels were 6+, and c) the Littles didn't need to be watching anything about demons or possession.
He then went on to inform her that since our children weren't any better behaved, our house wasn't any cleaner, she didn't need to be coming back for a visit. He was completely sick and tired of her constant negativity. She told him that ppl had criticized her when she was parenting him, and that it helped (*snort*). He told her that she hadn't said a single positive thing all wknd, and he was not going to put up with her criticizing his children, his home, his wife, or himself any longer. He even told her that she forces herself on people without so much as asking if they were ok with it, and that her presence wasn't actually a blessing, but something to endure, since she was always so negative, complaining and critical. 
I have no idea whats going to happen next. I asked Wolf what he wanted me to do when she called (because no doubt she will call and yell at me) and he said to just ignore her calls. She's going out of town for a reunion this wknd, so he figures by the time she gets there, she'll have totally reorganized everything in her head that its all wonderful. *sigh* MIL has the ability to either not hear or promptly twist, or outright 'forget' anything she doesn't like.
To be honest, I'm blown away that he actually took her to task for her behaviour. Its been happening every summer for the last six years, and he's never lost it like this before on her. I told him that it spoke volumes about our marriage...obviously he's secure enough in our marriage that her never-to-be-had approval didn't matter to him anymore. On one hand, I'm proud of him, on the other, concerned. I don't want him to regret this.
Yes, I consider myself to still be a 'young woman', so you can stifle the giggling right now, thanks very much.
I said, STIFLE!
I have puppy lust.
There, I said it. I've confessed. I know some women go through pangs of 'baby lust', but not I. Wolf usually knocks me up before I usually realize I want to be pregnant. Ok, not so much with Tazzie, but definately with Princess.
Anyways, I find myself deep in the throes of puppy lust.
How deep, you ask?
Well, deep enough that I would forgo my deeply held and long cherished dream of getting a Douge De Bordeaux, my all time favourite breed that I've promised myself would be my publishing gift (when I finally get a novel published, I'm buying one with the advance...assuming the advance is big enough, lmao!) and get another pug.
Now there's some serious puppy lust happening, folks.
We have had two pugs. Our first, beloved but none too bright and well...rather untrained (our fault...fell into the 'its a small dog' mind set and didn't bother with training *blush*) scooted out of the house on Hallowe'en a couple of years ago. The Mom with the trick or treaters PUNTED him like a foot ball, and he ran off, yelping. Diva took off after him...only to witness him being killed when he was run over by a speeding car.
Utter heartbreak, as only an eight year old can know.
Last year, we tried a pug again. Winston. He was 18 mths old when we got him, from a 'breeder' I kinda sorta knew. Biiiiiiiiiiiig mistake. Huge. He was nervous as all holy heck, high strung, couldn't be trusted around the Littles...as bad a fit as could ever be. We ended up rehoming him with a sweet sixteen year old whose mom used to breed dogs, who would pamper the heck out of him, and most importantly, had no small children, and wouldn't for years to come.
A few weeks after, we got Jack the Cat, whose about the size of a pug, if not bigger. Great cat, as far as cats go. Lets the kids maul him, until they go too far, and then he gives them a nip or a bit of a swat to keep them in line.
But he's still a cat.
And I'm a dog person. And like his Momma, Tazzie is also a dog person, since he's been heard lamenting lately, "Can we trade Jack in fow a dog? Pwease?"
Kid after my own heart.
Reality of it is, now just isn't the time for a puppy. Wolf's just gotten back to work, so we're starting to bail out our financial boat. His 2nd pay will be going to an accountant to file taxes (yes, late, bad bad bad!) finish catching up on bills if we're not all caught up by then, and kitting out the family for summer gear.
But...the van's paid off in July.
I'm just sayin....
This is something I've heard more and more. "Would you let a teenage BOY mind your children? You would?!" *gasp* *choke* *wheeze*
I've had a brother and sister team mind my kidlets...if one wasn't available, the other would mind them. Occasionally, for a day time job, both would come, since 2 kids under 3 can be a handful for anyone.
Why should having a PENIS render someone automatically suspect? There seems to be a growing trend across North America these days...Suspicion of The Danglers.
There have been situations when I was working that Diva would invite a friend over, and the question would come, "Is your Mom home?" and the answer, "No, my Dad is." and the child wouldn't be allowed. Meanwhile, my husband has far more patience and tolerance for opk (other people's kids) than I do, on any given day. He's the one making them popcorn for their movie while I'm fleeing for the sanctuary of my bedroom to escape the shrill giggling of little girls.
OK, not quite that extreme, but you get the picture. He's more the Mr. Rogers type when it comes to a host of other kids, and I'm more the Miss. Hannigan type. Adore my own, adore a FEW other kids (friends of mine, basically...one here in my city, hers are freaking adorable!)
And he's judged unsafe...because he has dangly bits. Parents would leave their little heathens with ME, assuming I'm perfectly safe, on the basis that I have a uterus. Meanwhile, I could be (and probably am) contemplating how quickly I could duct tape their child's big mouth shut.
Trust me, out of the two of us, Wolf's the safer bet if you're looking to leave your kid with someone. *HE* won't actually duct tape anyone.
I probably won't either, but that's cause of the whole one armed thing, not for lack of desire or trying.
Yes, I realize the last post was Sunday. Bite me.
Moving on.
I'm happy to announce that I'm now affiliated with what I think of as 'The Cool Moms Group' but what is actually called 'Moms Without Blogs'...you can see the button on the left hand side. They took a look at my blogs and decided I was nuts...errr...cool enough to join them.
I'd flip up my collar and do the Elvis sneer, but I'm wearing my uber comfy sweatshirt, and there's no collar. And the sneer just doesn't work without the popped collar, ya know? You just look dorky without the collar.
I was over reading at the MWB site, and it was about getting a pedicure, which brought back a memory of my own, that I thought I'd share.
Back when I was pregnant with The Princess, (I'm talking about 8.5 months pregnant) I waddled in to the local ritzy spa place for my first (and to date, last) pedicure. Wolf, being the well intentioned man he is, gave me gift certificates for a mani, pedi, and massage for my birthday. Now, I don't blame him, entirely. He explained to the folks there that it was for his extremely pregnant wife. (Why, oh WHY they would sell him a massage package is beyond me, because unless you're specially trained, you cannot do a massage on a pregnant woman, for fear of sending her into labour. But that bit comes later.)
Anyways, I took Wolf's cousin's wife with me. (Follow that one?) She and I get along fantastically well, and she was the one willing to mind Diva and Tazzie while I had the next lil critter. So, in we go...la la la.
Well, I thought the poor girl doing the pedicure was going to have a conniption fit over my feet. She scolded me about them, going on and on about the condition they were in. M stared at her in shock, her mouth agape, and I looked at this woman kneeling at my feet, resisted the urge to plant my foot in her mouth and said, "Its kind of hard to take care of my feet when I can't see them let alone reach them" She looked at me like I was stupid and asked if I had back problems. I looked at M, she looked at me, and this time she answered, saying, "Only when she's eight and a half months pregnant!"
Folks, I'm not one of those women that shows up in labour and people question if I'm really pregnant or not. I go into maternity clothes about three days after the stick shows positive, and get out of them sometime near the baby's second birthday, ok? There's no missing that I'm pregnant.
Two minutes after this, the Massage Dude walks in, and asks who is scheduled for the massage. M points at me. Massage Dude takes one look, and says, "I'm sorry, but I'm not trained to do massage on pregnant women."
So, Massage Dude, who looked to be all of twenty could tell at a glance from across the room I was pregnant, but Pedicure Woman who looked to be in her thirties, kneeling at my feet could not.
*blink*
So, at the end of the day, the price of the massage was taken off M's mani/pedi, which was cool. I had pretty feet, even though I couldn't see them. I figured that Wolf wanted me to have a few hours of pampering for myself, which I had and appreciated...and maybe the OBGYN would appreciate pretty feet in his face.
So, Happy 6th Wedding Anniversary to Wolf and I! Wow...6 yrs. Boggles my mind. I won't waste time contemplating the crimes I could have committed and be paroled for by now, because that would just be a downer. But 6 yrs! That's somewhat impressive...unless you're Sm, or other folks like her that have been married for 17 yrs and the like. 6 years is impressive to ME, ok? :oP
Anyways, Wolf and I have been in a wee bit of a financial bind. I've kept it out of the blog, but its pertinent to this story, so thats why I'm mentioning it here. We're so freaking broke its scary.
So, my gf K came by last night with some groceries that she'd pulled from her storage. She swears her husband, 'Costco J' buys apple juice and ketchup by the vat. She had asked that Wolf go out to the car to bring the stuff in. No prob.
What I didn't know was that the sneaky wench had something up her sleeve. $10 to be precise. Which she slipped to my husband, with the commandment,
"Thou shalt by thy wife an anniversary card. And not one of those funny ones either, Bub. It better be romantic, got it?"
I woke up this afternoon (yes, I was allowed to sleep in...until 1230, at which point folks started to worry that I wasn't actually sleeping but had died, and the attempts to check my pulse woke me) to find a lovely card on my night table. It plays, "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You." What really, REALLY got me was what Wolf wrote on the inside. Its intensely personal and private, so I'm not sharing it :oP but it rocked me...One of those, "Wow...he really *does* get it" moments...he really does understand how much I do work at this whole marriage gig some days. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible, ya know? That he just doesn't see. But he does. And that means more to me than anything else he could possibly have bought or given me today.
Dang. I absolutely DID marry the right guy...and he's bought himself another year of it...poor bugger.
I think its starting to set in. I've even changed my name, and am toying with changing it back again.
Bear with me.
I've been Domestic Goddess for a bit, simply because it makes me snicker at the complete oxymoron at ME being labelled a Domestic Goddess. A prime example of sarcasm at its finest. So, I switched to Not A Stepford Wife on my profile.
But then, I started reading through my posts, and dang, I refer to myself as Domestic Goddess a LOT on here. Which would mean a LOT of editing.
And I'm one handed typing.
Or just lazy.
We'll stick with the one handed typing. And as much as I am very definately the prime living breathing ultimate example of Not A Stepford Wife, its a dang long name to have...so I'm going back to the Domestic Goddess.
Plus...it makes Wolf's eye twitch in that really neat way every time he happens to read over my shoulder and sees it.
*grin*
And I realize that's not a HUGE shock to anyone that knows me in the slightest (aka has read here a time or two) but geez, folks...every now and then it catches ME off guard, k? Cause certain levels of weird are just beyond acceptable.
Take this am for example. I was still in a lousy mood from the rejection of the short story contest, and ended up blubbering again telling Wolf about it, since he'd already gone to bed when I read the email. Now, at first he tried the old, "they don't know what they're missing, buncha jerks, try again, rah rah rah" speech thing that for some reasons guys actually think will make a woman feel better. WHY? I mean, seriously, does it EVER work?
For any male readers that may be lurking, or that may ever stumble across this article or blog, let me, the Domestic Goddess, author of Not A Stepford Wife give you this one bit of advice that will automatically put you at the head of the line when it comes to boyfriend-hood, and winning the husband awards.
When your girlfriend/fiancee/wife/live-in/significant other has had a disappointment and is upset, tell her you're sorry and HUG HER. Honestly, it will work wonders. You don't actually have to say anything else in particular, perhaps an 'mmmmhhhmmm' or an 'uh huh', but holding her and rocking her will cover everything. I promise you, saying "I'm sorry" is not always an admission of guilt! Honest!!
Now, *my husband* doesn't take that kind of advice. Nope. He stands there in the kitchen, looks at me with tears running down my face, and asks, "Are you drunk?"
I kid you not.
Now, the fact that we're flat freaking broke and have no booze in the house so its a freaking impossibility to start with aside...oy.
Then, I had emailed my gf K when I got the response...forwarded it to her. She responded this am. Thought it was an April Fools gag.
I kid you not.
She had to CALL ME to confirm that no, this was not a prank I was pulling, this was seriously the situation. I'll take that as a serious vote of confidence as to my talent as a fiction writer and the strength of the entry I submitted.
Crazy day.
So, the big V day is almost upon us.Unfortunately, that's not Vasectomy, its Valentine's.Valentine's day so isn't my gig. Nor is it Wolf's. He doesn't do anything on command, so the idea of HAVING to be romantic just doesn't work for him at all.And besides, Taz birthday is the day after. Far more important in my books than a societal ordered love fest.I'd be more enthused about Vasectomy Day.
I'm pretty sure 'normal' families don't have conversations like this.Wolf: Women are malicious. Men will just kill you, but women want to watch you suffer...preferably for years.Me: Name one thing I've ever deliberately done to cause you pain.Wolf: *grins*Me: MARRYING you does NOT count!****(Bedtime for Tazzie)Taz: Uh ohMe: What?Taz: I stinkMe: What?!Taz: I farted. I can't sleep, its stinky *starts flapping his blankets*Me: *just about gagging* Too bad, you made it, you sleep in it.Five minutes later:
Taz: Woof! Woof! I'm a dog!
Me: ok, night puppy...*puts glass of water on his headboard*
Taz: Woof! Woof! Puppies need a bowl, not a cup! Woof! Woof!
Me: You can use the cup.
Taz: Woof! I don't gots thumbs! Puppies can't hold cups! Need a bowl! Woof!
Me: Then when you get thirsty, you'll have to change back into a boy. G'night!
Taz: *starts crawling out of his room, 'woofing' and wiggling his butt.
Me: Puppies don't have thumbs, so they can't play xbox tomorrow. And little boys that get out of bed can't play either.
Taz: *runs back into his room*
Honestly, this can't be normal. Can it? For the record, Taz has been an issue to get to bed lately. I don't doubt that he saved his gas emissions all day just to try and use gas warfare as a delay bedtime technique. And no thumbs? Ok, so I've told the cat that since he didn't have thumbs he didn't get his choice of seats in the livingroom, but oy!
Friend of mine's blog inspired this...
She was talking about hiding from people, emotionally, and her struggle to get past it.
Reminded me of an essay in the book, "All I Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten" by Robert Fulghum, one of my all time favourite authors. In this particular essay, he talks about how grown ups play hide and seek like kids do, but we do it with our true selves, our emotions, our hearts.
And its true, isn't it.
I just had a chat with Wolf last night. Although, 'chat' might be a bit of a misnomer. I talked, I cried, he listened.
I've been playing Hide and Seek, you see. I've been hiding not only from my husband, but from myself. The only people I'm even remotely honest with are my Drs, because they have to know exactly where I'm at. Well, and a good friend of mine tends to see more than anyone else.
I've been trying to protect my husband. He gets so frustrated and upset with the fact that I'm hurting and he can't do squat about it. Its shaken the foundation of our marriage.
See, every marriage has its bargin. Spoken or not. Everyone has their roles to play, as it were. For us, my dh needed a wife/mother. I knew it, accepted it, and embraced it in many ways. I was the strong one, emotionally. His anchor. I smoothed the way as best I could, carrying the stress and burdens so that he didn't have to. He worked, I carried. And it worked for us.
I'm not complaining at all, don't get me wrong. Like I said, it worked.
Until now.
Until I'm unable to make this better. I can't protect him, and worry about him, when I'm drowning myself. Drowning in denial, refusing to think of the future, worrying about being able to tend to my responsibilities as a wife and mother. So now, we need to reshuffle our roles. I need him to lie to me once in a while, tell me everything will be fine, even knowing that he can't guarantee that.
Hiding is something we learn on our way to adulthood. Fear guides us. Those that know our vulnerabilities have power in our lives.
But sometimes...our vulnerabilities being hidden hurts beyond measure.
So to those hiding, I'm calling out.
Olly Olly Oxen Free!
Get found, Kid. Get found.
Wolf and I had been talking on Sunday about how badly things were getting to me. Friday was just hell, and the stupid driver was the icing on a poisoned cake at that point. Saturday, I went to see the psychologist for the first time which was emotional, and Sunday, Jack went MIA.
I told my husband, "I need something GOOD to happen." Wolf replied, "I didn't realize we were in a bad place."
I explained to him that *we* aren't, but that I'm just feeling overwhelmed, drained, tired, frayed. He went to bed shortly after, and before I went to bed, Jack came home, so that definately lifted my spirits. I felt like that was the good thing I'd needed.
Anyways, Wolf comes home yesterday with a bunch of red carnations. I thanked him happily, but was puzzled. The only time he's ever brought flowers home before was on my birthday or our anniversary. Before I could ask, he said, "You said you needed something good to happen...I thought maybe this would work."
Its those kinda moments that mean so much.**************Taz, 3.5 read Wolf a bedtime story last night. He's reading more and more, I'm just so stinkin proud of him! He read the book, grinned at Wolf and announced, "I'm AWESOME!" lmao!
Every now and then something is said...carelessly, usually in a brief moment of frustration/upset/anger...something that would never be said 'just that way' or even at all that echoes in the mind and heart.Had a moment with Wolf like that this eve.Was relating a convo I had with Diva. She'd brought it up all on her own, about fostering/adopting. We talked about the concerns Wolf had (she asked why Daddy didn't want to yet) about time with the kids...one more kid means less time to spend with the ones we already have. She said, (bless her loving heart) that she would be ok with that, that this is something important to do, that every kid deserves a home where they're loved, and she wouldn't ever be so selfish as to not want to share us with a child that needs good parents so bad.I love that kid.Anyways, Wolf basically reacted like I cornered him with a bat. Spouted off a few ill chosen sentances, and stomped away.He apologized later, and I told him I didn't care, I give up.It breaks my heart. It breaks my heart that at the moment, my husband is more than content to sit on the sidelines and let someone else worry about these parentless children, these young souls so badly in need of permanency, of love, of home, of healing.It breaks my heart that we're sitting back and becoming one of the apathetic masses. While my heart most definately is NOT of the attitude, "Hey, not my kid, not my problem." our actions say it anyways. Or rather, our inactions.If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. BE the change you want to see in the world. I believe these things utterly and completely.And somewhere, tonight, every night, there is a child that prays for a family, whose prayer goes unanswered.
My husband is a tool. God love him, someone's got to, and apparently he's part of my lesson in paitence. *sigh* But, along the way, we do get some laughs...ok, a lot of them, and its probably what keeps us going. Even if I wanna kill him first, and laugh second. Here's a perfect example:Grabbed At SafewayKids and I went to Safeway to pick up bread and a few odds and ends. Diva and Taz went to the washroom, and I was in the dairy aisle.
Caught movement out the corner of my eye, and suddenly my butt's grabbed! I yelped, whirling around, raising my knee to plant in the offenders package.
There stood my idiot husband, at a safe distance, snickering. Bugger had finished work early, and headed to pick up bread for home. I called him a few choice names and then collapsed on the edge of the case.
I was somewhat impressed that my first reaction was a knee plant.
The woman who watched it all go down had a good chuckle.****And then, as we're snuggling down for sleep, he mentions a conversation he had with an xray tech last week...Wolf: So, as she was putting that lead thingie over my package, I asked her, "If you leave that off, would I still need a vasectomy?"Tech: "Yes"Wolf: I was rather bummed by that. Thought it could be one stop shopping.Giggling yourself to sleep is a good thing.
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