If communication is key to a happy marriage?

We’re in trouble. 

Him:  while pausing the latest episode of Cougar Town. What’d that girl play on?

Her:  looks up from the laptop. Oh, um…. Ahhh… 

Him:  She looks really familiar.

Her:  Yeah, uh… Oh! She was in that show, the funny one, on CBS, Monday nights…. You know… the one with the guy with the beard and the other guy is from the American Pie movie and they’re lawyers. They live in New York and always go to some diner. And that girl is dating the American Pie guy and she is roommates with that girl that’s in that movie with the chick from Sex and the City and now she’s on another funny show too. 

Him:  stares blankly.

Her:  huffs and consults Google.  See… Mad Love… remember?  Shows him a picture of the cast and reads the description. 

That’s exactly what I said.  

Him:  Oh my God. That was nothing like what you said. You gave the worst description ever. 

Her:  Whatever.

Is there something in the Bible that says, “thou shall pawn your children off on grandparents and go be husband and wife once in a while.”? 

No?

Well there should be!

A few weeks into Craig’s football season, we realized it would likely end without an extended season due to playoffs.  So we started talking about a weekend away, visiting his cousin who coaches college football and spending some time with their family.  At first, taking the kids was the plan.  But then I worked up the courage to say, “Um… honey. I don’t really want them to go.” 

A few days of discussions and “but I never get to see them during the season,” from him and a few “but it’s HARD to travel with them and what if they won’t sleep in a hotel” from me, I convinced him just shy of  having to pull out the “if they go, I don’t go!” ultimatum.

So away we went. And home Chessa and Cole stayed. 

(thank you, thank you, thank you to my parents and in-laws.)

On the opposite side of the state for 48 hours, we were able to go out to a late dinner, drink as much as we wanted, eat our food while it was still hot, talk to other adults (and each other) without spelling words or talking toddler talk, not chase a child around a football stadium and not carry goldfish in our pockets.  And we got to sleep in.  Ahhh…  sleeping in past 7AM. I sort of forgot what that felt like. 

Yes, we missed them.  Yes, when I saw other moms at the game with cute little kiddos, I felt a little bit bad for thinking that I couldn’t have brought them to the game.  Yes, their older cousin missed them and was a little annoyed that we didn’t bring them.  Yes, I called and texted often.  Really often. 

But. 

Getting away from the jobs, the stress, the kids and even (and especially) this town was exactly what we needed.

The house was a mess. The floor a dumping ground for Legos, stuffed animals and six or seven Elmos.  The kids were disheveled and I was past the point where I cared. They were happy. They were content for a few minutes. And I was taking a much needed breath.

Craig was in the middle of it all. He was home for a short time to visit with us between meetings or film sessions, popping in for “hellos” and cuddles and kisses.  And I was more than happy to hand the parenting duties over to him for those moments.

As the kids reached for him and clung in his arms and on his leg, he looked at me.

“I know you’re tired by the end of the day,” he said. “But you have to appreciate that you get all this time with them.”

I do. Oh, how I do. And oh, how tired I am sometimes. 

How much I hate that I can stare at a basket of laundry for three days before I finally give in and fold it. Or how much I dread the sound of blocks crashing onto the floor knowing that in approximately 5.4 seconds they will be all over the bottom half of our house and I’ll be picking them up when the kids go to bed.  How I try hard to watch a couple of DVR’d sitcoms and only make it to the first commercial before I fall asleep on the couch. 

But?

But I know he misses more. 

He misses the hugs, the laughter, the goofy faces and the celebrations for milestones such as potty training for the girl and sitting up and becoming even more mobile for the boy. (OK, fine. I didn’t celebrate his mobile-ness as much as I choked back tears at the thought of two kids going in two different directions.)  He misses dinner (even if it is hotdogs and french fries – again!) more than I dread having to spoon feed the baby and bargain with a toddler while trying to eat my own dinner while it’s still sort of hot. 

I was terrified of this year’s football season. Sure that by week four I would be batshit crazy with two kids. 

But actually? (And I’m whispering this part because there are still a couple of weeks left to the season.)  It hasn’t been THAT bad. The kids and I found a groove. Craig found a way to be here more than either of us probably expected. He’s getting lots of time with Chessa, often hanging out with her while I put Cole to bed.  And if Cole doesn’t soon stop reaching for Craig instead of me, I’m going to develop a complex. 

I lowered my expectations for sure. Baths are only given every other night. Dinner isn’t freshly made as often as I would like. I’m not spending my weekends cooking and baking.  My house isn’t always company ready. 

I knew when to call for help. Whether from my in-laws next door, my parents, close friends or two favorite babysitters, I didn’t hesitate to call in reinforcements when the going started to get tough.  That’s so not like me. 

But we survived. 

Cole greets him with fast and furious baby kicks. And Chessa runs across the room, feet pounding floorboards, yelling “DADDY!DADDY!DADDY!DADDY! when she hears the door open.  When he’s not here for bedtime kisses, he’s sneaking in their rooms for whispered good nights as they sleep.   

And I? Well I’m in desperate need for a date night and I’ve rewarded myself with a wee bit of retail therapy (just to match the new bag a certain someone got me for my birthday) but, I made it. 

So, yes. I do know how lucky I am to be in these moments every single day.

And also, I’m still counting down to the final game.   

Linking up with Shell!

Two days after our “I do”s, we hopped a plane and headed to Mexico for our honeymoon.  The Riveria Maya was beautiful. White sand, blue water. Free food and drinks all the live long day. 

I am sure this is what Heaven looks like. 

Aren’t the drinks pretty??

Because everyone needs a picture with a monkey on their shoulder.

We spent six glorious days sleeping in the sun, walking on the beach, going to breakfast and eating late dinners. Every day, we looked at the brochure and talked about parasailing or doing some kind of “adventure”.  And every day we decided to wait.

And then, on our second to last night there, we had drinks and went to dinner, like every night before.  Only this time, we both woke up around midnight and spent the next 12 hours passing each other on our way to the bathroom. 

“Sick” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I cannot eloquently talk about “The Sick” so let’s just leave it at that, shall we? 

When evening came, since we were planning to leave the next day, we called the hotel doctor.  He came to our room, pronounced us dehydrated and rode with us to the local hospital. 

Yes, we went to a hospital in Mexico. No, neither of us speak Spanish. 

Oh, wait. “Cervaza” is Spanish for “beer”, right? We had that one down. 

At the hospital we were separated on opposite sides of the room, I could hear Craig, but not see him.  Blood was drawn, samples were taken, fluid was given and I think I presented my insurance card wondering how in the world the payment stuff was going to work.  Craig started to feel a little better, I did not.  The doctors started talking about keeping us in the hospital over night. Craig told them are flight left the next morning and we’d be leaving soon thankyouverymuch. The word “quarantine” was mentioned.

I sat up and decided it was time to feel better and stop running for the bathroom.  Maybe “quarantine” means something different in Mexico?

Sometime late that night, we got back to the hotel and slept a few hours.  When the alarm went off, I called the front desk to find out if we could, in fact, stay an extra day. The short answer was, “No, get the hell out.”  Two hours later, I was sipping ginger ale on an airplane bound for Baltimore, praying that I wouldn’t toss my cookies.  (I didn’t. Thank GOD!)

And that was how we ended our honeymoon. 

Remind me someday to tell you about our trip to Punta Cana when we were dating.  The spoiler is that after sun posioning there and (suspected) food posioning in Mexico, I’ll be good if I never travel again.

Linking up with Natalie!

Ten years ago this week, I met my husband.  He’ll tell you we met a few months earlier and that I paid no attention to him.  And, well, he’s not wrong.  He’s not right, but he’s not wrong. 

Fresh out of college, I was working my first job at a tourism promotion agency. With a passion for media and special events, the all star football game that we were planning was right up my alley.  The game was my chance to shine. To show that I could do this professional girl in heels thing.  In April we held a news conference for local media and invited all of that year’s coaches to attend.

Craig was a coach. 

His side of the story is that he tried to talk to me at the news conference and I blew him off.  To that I say, “whatever, dude. I was busy.” 

Next up was a practice in early May, followed by dinner with the team at a local restaurant.  At the table, I was charmed and entertained by an older, retired coach who told jokes and made us giggle through the meal.  Again, I didn’t talk to Craig much, but I did in fact notice him. 

A few phone calls between May and the week of the game asking him to “please for the love of all things Holy, send in your paperwork.”  And then noticing that his emergency contact was his mother (check one – not married) but that he wasn’t living with her (check two – not still living at home).  By the time the last week of June rolled around, I was… intrigued. 

At the first practice, I tried to flirt a little.  (Maybe not the most professional thing to do, so let’s just say I was being friendly.)  He was cold in return. 

Fine then. 

The next day, he was a little more chipper and maybe, just maybe, flirted back a tad.  At the end of the day, the coaches asked if we could get tickets to the local minor league baseball game.  I agreed and asked how many tickets they needed.  Enough for all five coaches. 

I got seven tickets.  Five for the coaches, one for a co-worker of mine and one for me.  We agreed to meet them at their hotel in a couple of hours and we would all go to the game together. 

This was it.  I was going to charm him over beers and baseball.  I went home, put on a cute American Eagle skirt and tank top, curled my hair and dabbed on lip gloss.  My heart was pounding and I was on pins and needles with excitement. 

We got stopped at the red light just outside the hotel.  I checked my hair in the mirror, giggled to my friend that maybe someday I’d remember this game as a BIG IMPORTANT MOMENT and looked up to see a white Jeep Wrangler approaching the intersection. 

“Hey that looks like Craig’s Jeep,”  she said. 

“It is.  Oh, someone is with him.  It must be Coach Sam.”

And then as he crossed the intersection we noticed that no, it wasn’t Coach Sam.  It was Coach Craig. 

And a date. 

I spent the first few innings of the game shooting daggers at the back of Craig’s head while sipping my beer.  When he went for a refill and asked if I wanted one, I mumbled a disgruntled no, even though mine was empty and I did, in fact, want another beer.  When he left because it started to rain and the top was off his Jeep, he left a note on my car for the rest of us to meet him at the bar.  I very maturely threw the note away. 

I was crushed.  With absolutely no right to be, I was crushed.  And pissed.  And maybe a little young. 

The week continued, I gave him the cold shoulder for a few days and players and coaches started laughing and joking about the “cousin” he brought to the game.  A few pointed interrogations of him and less than obvious (so I thought) questioning of the players on the team, I found out that the girl was a friend/date.  But not a girlfriend. 

Okay then. 

A few days later, mid-week, when he asked me if I wanted to go out sometime, I coyly answered, “maybe.”  Oh yes, people.  I was SO very good at playing hard to get. 

The night of the game, after getting admonished by a coworker about being unprofessional (pssh, whatever), all bets were off.  We were no longer working on a project together and we were free to date. 

So we did.

Sorry this is terrible quality, I had to scan it.  10 years ago, we were still using cameras with film and prints.  Weird.   But LOOK at how blonde I am. 

A while back, maybe six or seven years ago, Craig and I were spending our usual Fourth of July week at the beach with his family.  It was mid-week and Craig was being a wee bit pesty. 

If he wasn’t picking on his mom, reminiscing about the day she dropped him off at college football camp or the family photos she made him take, he was giving me a hard time for being at the beach but sitting under an umbrella, my affection for country music or the fact that I’m a little bit challenged by my rights and lefts.  Nothing was off limits for his comments or teasing. 

All. Day. Long.

By late afternoon, he was tap dancing on my last nerve and I was contemplating whether I could ask him to go for ice cream and “forget” to bring him back to the condo. 

At just about that time, something caught our eye.  An older woman and her daughter were working their way across the hot sand towards the stairs that lead to the parking lot.  Even in sandals, with each step the scalding afternoon sand was burning their feet.  The daughter was trying to hold up her mother, while having her own feet burned.  After a few steps, it was too much.  The older woman fell and the daughter struggled to lift her. 

Before she could drop her umbrella and beach bags, Craig was on his feet running across the sand to help.  His feet were now being burned by the sand, but still, he took his time and gently lifted this stranger to her feet and led her to the parking lot. 

His mother and I looked at each other, both smiling after watching the scene unfold.  She was proud of the son she raised and I was sure that he was a guy worth dating.  With a laugh, I said “he can be such a shit all day long and then he goes and does something like that.” 

Now, all these years later, his daughter is the exact same way.

We spend days being challenged by her.  Trying to minimize the whining, sidestep the tantrums and most recently, enforce the “no hitting” rule. 

Then just when I think I’m at the end of my rope.  Just when I think bedtime can’t come soon enough.  Just when I start wondering if it’s appropriate to drink wine out of a pint glass, she asks to sit next to her brother as I read her a book.  I warn her that she has to be nice when she sits by him and hold my breath waiting for her to jump or roll into his tiny body. 

Then, moments later, I look away from the book and see my girl gently holding hands with her little brother.   

With a  warm heart and a chuckle, I think to myself, ‘you can be such a stinker all day long and then you go and do something like that.”

I got to the game early.  Really early.  I watched the teams take the field for their pre-game drills.  One team, dressed in blue, was calm, methodical and quiet as they stretched their hamstrings and quads.  The other, dressed in red, was excited, edgy and loud as they chanted the counts.  The coaches walked through the various stations watching receivers catch balls, lineman push each other around and quarterbacks practice their hands offs to running backs.  Parents, family and fans slowly filled the stands with their blankets, fluffy coats, hats and gloves. 

It was a big game.  A game that ends with medals and a trophy for one team.  A game that begins the next round of playoffs leading to the State Championship game.  The first game of the season that I was nervous for.  (Or maybe the nerves were because C was having a sleepover at my mom’s house.  You decide.) 

As the teams were introduced and fans cheered for their sons, nephews, brothers and friends, I thought about the season.  The many, many long weeks and wondered if it was worth it for “just a game.”  Then the game started and kids on the field ran the plays that were called to them from the sidelines.  Some broke tackles and took off for the end zone a time or two.  Others made huge plays at the goal line to stop their opponent from scoring.  Watching one player run down the sideline with the end zone in sight and hearing the cheers crescendo as he closed in to put points on the board, it hit me that this isn’t just a game. 

It’s not just a game to the 60 players on the field.  Not to the 30 who kneeled while the other 30 collected their medals or to team that got the medals and jumped up and down with their trophy.  It’s not just a game to the dads in the crowd who have been going to their son’s football games since they were playing pee wee and know just how much the blood, sweat and tears cost.   It’s not just a game for the mom who holds her breath with every play half wanting the play to be successful and half just hoping it’s not her baby at the bottom of the pile.  It’s not just a game to the coaches who have everything they work for put on display every week, written about in the paper, critiqued on internet message boards and shown in 60-second clips on the local 11:00 news. 

We’re still playing.  Our boys (can I call them boys if they’re way bigger than me?) are practicing in the cold rain today, they’ll practice in the snow tomorrow and on Friday, they’ll climb back onto the bus for the ride to the game.  They’ll push down the butterflies in their stomach and they’ll take the field again.  Could it be their last game?  Maybe.  Bu,t as much as I’ve been ready for this season to be over, I hope not.  We only have three more weeks if we go all the way, so what the hell?  Let’s go get ‘em boys.

“I have a love/hate relationship with football season.”  I left that as a comment on Sara’s blog earlier today and it hit me that it is exactly how I feel.  Love. Hate.

I go into those first few weeks of pre-season, three-a-days kicking and screaming.  I hate that it means the end of summer, I hate that it means the loss of an extra set of hands around the house for many evenings and I hate exchanging ‘how was your day”s with my husband as we’re walking out the door in the morning because I was sound asleep by the time he came home.  (In his defense, I fall asleep really early. Always have. Always will.  He loves me anyway.)

A few weeks into it, I get into a groove. I develop a new routine.  Fall starts and wearing jeans and sweatshirts to cool games on Friday nights makes me happy.  Also, on the making me happy side is seeing my little girl shake her pom-poms and dance with the band at her daddy’s games.  I laugh at the stories of her visits to football practice and picture her riding around in the golf cart and stealing the boys’ water bottles.  I learn to soak in the evenings when Craig is home to help with bath time and I start embracing the use of the camera phone to share crazy and funny things our daughter does.  I take lots of bubble baths and drink lots of hot chocolate (or wine, when I’m not growing a human.)

And I appreciate that as much as it sucks for me, it’s hard on Craig too.  That he misses our daughter (and possibly me) and feels pulled between the family that needs him at home and the one that needs him on the field.  So, I lighten up and do my best to be supportive and cheerful while wrangling a headstrong toddler. 

By the time playoff starts, I find myself in a weird place of really wanting the season to be over.  I want to have an adult to talk to at the dinner table again. I want to start getting ready for the holidays.  I want to stop freezing my ass off at games.  But.  And this is a big BUT.  I don’t want the team to lose.  I don’t want Craig to lose. 

I don’t want to see boys who are bigger than me with tears freezing on their face as they leave the field for the last time of the season or maybe ever, for the seniors.  I don’t want to see the disappointment in my husband’s eyes when he wakes up the next morning.  I dont want to see him replaying the game in his head wondering if he could have done something more, should have put in a different game plan or spent a few more hours looking at game film.  I don’t want to read the sports columns or the local message boards full of arm chair quarterbacks and their questionable opinions. 

We’re at that point.  Playoffs started last week and we’re still going.  My fingers are crossed for a win on Friday night (truth be told they are also crossed for warm, dry weather) and I’ll keep cheering at the games (or yelling at the radio) for as many weeks as they keep playing.  But when the evening comes that I can cook dinner without pulling out Tupperware and opening up the freezer to keep my kid from hanging onto my leg (or you know, pee without an audience) a little part of me will be glad those months are behind us.  Until next year.

She had been awake for less than an hour.  Less than sixty minutes of banging cabinet doors, turning on every toy that plays obnoxious music and constant running back and forth between the living room, the office and the kitchen. 

I was rearranging cabinets.  Locking up the ones that housed glass lids, sharp objects or poisonous cleaning products and putting “safe toys” like food storage containers, plastic mixing bowls and measuring spoons in others.  As she tried desperately to open one of the now child-proofed doors, she looked at me with eyes that said I had just crushed her hopes and dreams of banging pots and pans all day, and started to whine. 

He leaned down to kiss us goodbye, the same way he does every Sunday morning.  “Looks like you’re going to have your hands full here,” he chuckled. 

I sighed.  “Yeah.  She’s a handful these days.”

“I’d much rather be here than watching game film,”  he promised. 

I looked up at him and grinned. ”You know, I’m pretty sure I could figure out a winning game plan for Friday night.  You let me know if you want to switch. ” 

All day long, I followed her from room to room.  Trying to minimize the damage that  a one-year-old, less than 20- pound, adorable terror can do to three rooms.  I caught her four times as she tried to crawl up the steps to the second floor.  I attempted to distract her with books when she wanted battery-operated toys that happily sing “It’s LEARNING time” at two volumes – loud and louder.  I took her outside to burn off energy and tried to explain why we shouldn’t put rocks in our mouth.  I engaged in a battle of the wills at each mealtime over who would use the spoon and who would feed her.  And, I cleaned up the mess of oatmeal, vegetable soup and mashed potatoes that covered my floor when I lost…  all three times. 

How long does this toddler stage last?  Because by next year, I’m going to work on my X’s and O’s.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *