Happy Anniversary to us

We've now been married five years, together for ten. We have one boy, age three. We've lived in three apartments and two cities together. We drove one truck, pulled one car and carried two plants 2,138 miles cross-country. We broke down three times along the way. But we made it through and fell into rush hour traffic on the Kennedy Expressway, where my dad pulled up next to us on his way home from work, yelling at us to get our rig off the road and welcoming us to our new home. We lived with my parents (in separate bedrooms) for two months before we got our own place and really settled in.

We now have three stacks of plastic storage tubs full of baby and maternity clothes in our basement that reach the ceiling. We have six jobs and probably a hundred pairs of shoes between us. We've lost and gained and lost again many, many pounds, shed countless tears and laughed so hard so often that it is one thing I am sure is immeasurable. We've sat together in too many uncomfortable hospital chairs.  We've ridden thigh to thigh in more side-by-side airplane seats.

We have ten unopened china settings in our pantry and they are lovely and beautiful and perfectly fragile.

We chose a date because the number seemed to have a pleasing congruity, 10.12.02. We stood, five years ago, on an altar with our minister and seven attendants, 180 guests and a harpist and all I saw was this man.

                                             

Today, the numbers are insignificant. It is the bliss I want to hold on to.

Happy Anniversary to my partner in crime.

[photo credit: Jessica Ashley]

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Linkety Dinkety Doo: Mama say

Things have calmed a bit around here and just like that first day home after finals every single year in college, I feel sick.

I'm giving in to whatever bug this is with some rest, some tea* (caffeinated, but still...) and a big bowl of soup with a friend for lunch. I'll let her do the talking and give myself over to all the good blood cells (are those the white ones?). Not to worry, I've said lots this week around the interwebs. Join in the conversation there and then meet me back for some slightly-less germy stuff tomorrow. Be well!

I bitch about Halloween here.

I stare at boobies here.

I pose an as-yet unanswered question here.

I give love to women blogging about cancer here.


*Isn't that mug hilarious (yes, the pictured one)? It's from Etsy. I love Etsy. And I love mugs. I have too many mugs but I just keep buying more. I'm thinking about buying this sweet little cup. Or maybe this one. Perhaps I spend too much time at Starbucks, staring at the clearance shelf when I should be posting.

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How a preschooler doles out allowance

"Mommy, Mommy! Guess what happened at co-op today?," Lil E ran up to me, brown eyes lit up, wide smile and skipping as much as a three-year old can.

"What?," I asked. I was making a snack. A Kashi cookie and big sippy cup of milk. "Tell me!"

"We played Play-Doh!"

"Oh, how exciting!" I was happy not to have to clean up. I loved that someone else gave him free reign of it and that it made him so happy. I nudged at his enthusiasm, "What color did you get?"

"Gween! And I made lots of stuff!"

"Like what? What did you make?"

He half-hopped, half-skipped back to the living room, toward the couch, where he likes to receive his snack like an old man in a reclining armchair.

"I'm not telling you," he called to me over his shoulder bobbing up and down as he went, "I'm not telling you what I made! I'm not going to tell you!"

And even though I tried, that was all I got. A little crumb of my own.

Next stop, crushes and curfews.

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