(Which is why this is okay, because I skipped last month.)
Happy three months of being hitched! That’s a full quarter of a year, and we still like each other. I think by this point in my last marriage we already had our doubts, so WAY TO GO, US!
This month has been the first time we’ve lived together the entire time, WITH the kids here, and everyone is still alive and minimally scarred. That’s not to say that I am not going to shove all three of you out the door on Monday morning when school starts (hooray), but even at the end of a trying day seeing your face does not make me snap “What are YOU looking at??” so I think we’re doing great.
Today in preparation for back-to-school I gave all of you haircuts, and when I asked you how you liked yours you responded—as you always do—with, “You tell me.” I know that this is mostly a comment on your complete lack of concern with anything as mundane as how your hair looks, but it also implies a level of belief that never fails to tickle me. When Chickadee watched me use the clippers and shouted “SHAVE HIM BALD!” you didn’t even flinch. “I trust your mother,” you told her. Then you suggested I shave HER bald.
(And giving you a haircut is much more gratifying than giving the kids haircuts. Chickadee complained I cut too much from her—an entire INCH! her life is OVER!—and Monkey was unimpressed with my explanation of split ends and upon completion huffed “It looks exactly the SAME” which is what I thought he wanted, but what do I know.)
This week you went away on business and I was completely irritated with how useless I felt without you here. By the last day your voice was tired when you called; when I asked what was wrong you responded, “I’m ready to come home.” And that was pretty remarkable considering that I spent that last day in a frenzy dealing with the stupidest, most aggravating situation in the world and then calling you every 10 minutes to either report on what was happening or just cry. You STILL WANTED TO COME BACK to us.
You were genuinely disappointed that being away meant missing the kids’ Open House at school. You brag to your brothers that Monkey is becoming a race car fan and sits and watches races at your side with rapt attention (hey, I’m surprised, too). And despite your constant cracks about sending Chickadee to military school it was her that you ended up sitting out on the deck with the night you got home, making sure to take the time to give her that individual attention she so needs.
We’re on to you, buster. You’ve become your WORST NIGHTMARE. That’s right—you’re positively PARENTAL.
It’s more than I dared to hope for.
And even though I welcomed you back with open arms, a nice dinner, and a completely clogged up kitchen sink that you had to spend the evening disassembling (I’m sorry, I’m sorry), and even though our water supply turned an entire load of laundry brown this morning while I stomped and cursed about STUPID GEORGIA with its STUPID WATER BAN and STUPID SEDIMENT, you still keep remarking on how good it is to be home.
That makes me feel so warm and fuzzy, I am going to try EXTRA HARD not to break anything in the house for at least a week. You deserve it.