The past few weeks have been a blur of events and emotions, so I will try to sum them up in some coherent way.
A major chunk of our time has been spent house hunting and we quickly discovered that despite the news stories about desperate sellers giving away cars and properties sitting for months on the market, Ann Arbor is a whole different ballgame. This is the first time in decades that prices in Ann Arbor have come down into the sane range, so we figured now was the time to jump in.
Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea - houses are selling two days after they are listed and usually at or above list price! We finally found our "dream home" right around the corner from where we currently live (I use quotes because it needs some...ahem...cosmetic work). We tracked it for a month through the foreclosure process and made an offer the day it was listed. Despite the countless showings and interested people, we managed to get our offer accepted before anyone else could move. That sweet victory, however, was followed by defeat when the inspection revealed that the entire foundation needed repair. We've been negotiating with the bank to get them to fix it for us before closing because, oddly, we don't have $40,000 sitting around for basement repair. After a month of this, we are still in limbo.
Just a few short weeks ago I HATED the idea of owning a house, but I started down this road for Robbie's sake. Now I am the obsessed one - watching hours of HGTV and losing sleep because I'm trying to calculate how best to arrange furniture or redesign a kitchen. It's a sickness...truly. I always wondered what possessed my parents to spend half their weekend watching "This Old House" and the other half slaving away on whatever the current house project was. I vowed never to let a wooden box with a roof and front door take over my life in such a way. And yet here I am.
Maybe it's just the ultimate nesting instinct during pregnancy or maybe it's some genetic obsessive compulsive tendencies (I won't say which family member). Maybe it's the fact that we're having a home birth this time around and I was really excited about being in "my place" by the time it happened. Even if we get this current house, we wouldn't close until after the birth at this point, so I am a little disappointed. I can't help but think how amazing it would've been to say to my son someday, "you were born right here in this room." Instead, I will have to drive by a dilapidated rental and say, "you were born in that house in a room where the floor was so slanted that you popped out of the birth canal and then rolled away." Sigh.
Speaking of that son, it's hard to believe the big date is only 5 weeks away! I suppose it could be 7 weeks away, but this baby seems more impatient to get out than Emerson did. In fact, he seems determined to claw and kick his way out at any given moment. As fate would have it, there is a midwives' conference two weeks before my due date and most of the midwives in the state will be hours away. I do have a back up (including a five minute drive to the hospital as a last resort) and I doubt I will go that early, but the situation does feel a little like the set-up for an episode of a sitcom. The kind where the woman goes into labor early and instantly it's an emergency that involves a lot of screaming and a birth in a car or elevator (after a 36-hour labor with Emerson, I realize just how unrealistic those birth scenes are!)
Since this baby is number two as well as another boy, there's really nothing to do to prepare. Nevertheless, my nesting instincts are already kicking in, so I spent all last night gathering birthkit supplies, folding baby clothes and repacking the nursery with tiny diapers. In some ways it's very sentimental, but in other ways I can't help but wonder, "didn't I just pack these clothes away?!" I know two years apart is a common spread, but sometimes I question what the heck we were thinking! (Usually this occurs as I'm bending over my giant belly to pick up my giant toddler for the 100th time that day. Then again when I get up to go to the bathroom for the 100th time that night and I can't move because my back is spasming again!)
Our neighbors just had their first baby a couple weeks ago and hearing about the labor and seeing their adorable bundle brought up a swell of emotions I wasn't ready for. They seem to be adjusting much, much better than we did those first few weeks, but seeing them still reminds me of how hard those times were. Rewarding and amazing, yes, but also hard. I suppose even if the next baby does have albinism, we will be much better prepared for it this time around. But Emerson is also finally at a stage I really love, which only reminds me of the challenges we've had to face to get here...challenges we may have to face all over again.
On the other hand, if this baby does have albinism, I will be happy that Emerson will have someone who knows exactly what he's going through. Assuming they don't kill each other during childhood, I really want them to be lifelong friends. Oh yeah...THAT'S why I'm torturing my body by going through this again so soon after the first one! I knew there was a good reason.
Back to Emerson - he is basically in the terrible twos, but I am having so much fun. He's fully walking now - and running, and spinning in circles, and even doing a fancy backward moonwalk every once in a while. I never get tired of seeing him toddle into a room or explore his surroundings with this new upright perspective. He's still as stubborn and dramatic as ever and his sleeping and eating habits have regressed in some ways (maybe due to the developmental spurts or the baby coming?). But he's also a total ham and constantly making us laugh.
He refuses to say words, yet every time he hands us something or we hand him something, he says "oh thank you" in a sing song voice. None of the actual words are there, but the intonation is unmistakable. He's also taken to crawling into the dog's kennel, hiding toys in strange places, spinning in circles until he falls down, and making "scary" faces when he's wrestling (his eyes get really big, he purses his lips, and he shakes his head with intensity...until he can't hold it anymore and dissolves into laughter).
The other day we were eating at a restaurant with some friends and Emerson was getting ancy toward the end of the meal. Robbie released him from the highchair and one of our friends decided to distract him by dressing him in his wife's puffy black vest with a hood. The vest came all the way to the floor like a cape since Emerson was so small - he ended up looking exactly like Rick Moranis in "Spaceballs." I tried to take a picture, but only got one blurry one since I was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face. The outfit itself was funny, but what really got us laughing was the fact that Emerson quickly became aware of the attention he was getting from other people in the restaurant. He decided to play it up by walking very stoically past every table until he was sure everyone had a chance to see his performance. I'm not sure if the waitstaff appreciated the uproar we created, but we left a good tip.
****
On a much less happy note, my poor family in Utah is dealing with some tough times. My uncle had an aneurysm burst in his brain and he's now in a coma with very poor odds of recovery. It's hard to imagine what my dad must be going through as he watches his younger brother go through this and struggles to help the other siblings. If you've got any spare positive thoughts to spare, please send them westward...
****
So here we are, plugging along, waiting for news on several fronts and trying to make the most of the time. Thank goodness we have this funny little person to distract us and remind us of what's most important in life....
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
More Poop
I just had to point out that ever since my post on poop a few weeks ago, the google ads at the bottom of my blog have been for various "poop-scooping" services. Seriously, how lazy do you have to be to hire someone to clean up after your dog?! Then again, this is the same country where people buy frozen pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches....
Saturday, August 16, 2008
One Giant Step for Emerson Kind
Ok, this post is really more for grandparents and devoted aunties, but I have to share some of the milestones Emerson has hit recently. The first and best one is not really a milestone actually - just a funny and strange thing he started doing one day: when Robbie and I are standing near each other and have him in our arms, he grabs the back of our heads and forces us to kiss. I'm not sure if he's a future Dr. Phil in the making or just has control issues, but either way it's cute.
On the walking front, I can (tentatively) say he's a walker! I say tentatively because he's only a walker during specific moods and in specific places, but he's making huge progress nonetheless. Our next major goal is outside so that we can sit and talk with friends during outdoor barbecues while watching him run around, rather than interrupting our conversation every two minutes because we are being dragged up and down the stairs by our toddler.
Since the walking has improved, my theory that other areas would start picking up speed has turned out to be true. He's starting to use more signs and seems genuinely interested in learning new ones. He also started copying us when we say, "uh oh," which seems like such a small thing, but it's actually a good sign that maybe, just maybe, he will take an interest in copying more sounds and eventually...words! Along the same lines of communication, he finally started identifying body parts when we ask. We'd frankly given up on that in the past few months (hey school is out for summer), but then one day he just started doing it!
He's also pointing to what he wants more often, wanting to push his own stroller around, wanting to feed himself with silverware, and in general taking more strides toward independence. Of course, along with all this comes the "terrible twos" syndrome (which is such a misnomer since it's more like 1-3) of wanting to do what they want, when they want, how they want. And if these criteria aren't met - tantrums. It's hard not to laugh at the way he literally throws himself down to the ground, kicking and screaming and burying his head in his hands. Look out Broadway....Emerson is already the master of dramatics!
Hopefully with the baby coming we will have more milestones to report soon. But for now, we can rest assured that our child will grow up knowing where his nose is and how to ask for another cracker. :)
On the walking front, I can (tentatively) say he's a walker! I say tentatively because he's only a walker during specific moods and in specific places, but he's making huge progress nonetheless. Our next major goal is outside so that we can sit and talk with friends during outdoor barbecues while watching him run around, rather than interrupting our conversation every two minutes because we are being dragged up and down the stairs by our toddler.
Since the walking has improved, my theory that other areas would start picking up speed has turned out to be true. He's starting to use more signs and seems genuinely interested in learning new ones. He also started copying us when we say, "uh oh," which seems like such a small thing, but it's actually a good sign that maybe, just maybe, he will take an interest in copying more sounds and eventually...words! Along the same lines of communication, he finally started identifying body parts when we ask. We'd frankly given up on that in the past few months (hey school is out for summer), but then one day he just started doing it!
He's also pointing to what he wants more often, wanting to push his own stroller around, wanting to feed himself with silverware, and in general taking more strides toward independence. Of course, along with all this comes the "terrible twos" syndrome (which is such a misnomer since it's more like 1-3) of wanting to do what they want, when they want, how they want. And if these criteria aren't met - tantrums. It's hard not to laugh at the way he literally throws himself down to the ground, kicking and screaming and burying his head in his hands. Look out Broadway....Emerson is already the master of dramatics!
Hopefully with the baby coming we will have more milestones to report soon. But for now, we can rest assured that our child will grow up knowing where his nose is and how to ask for another cracker. :)
Friday, August 15, 2008
Observations from the Seedy Underbelly
I am not a typical parent....I'm certainly not the kind of parent I always imagined I'd be. Here are some random examples to explain what I mean:
1) No matter how close we get to the arrival of the new baby (and it's coming alarmingly fast this time!), I have yet to be wistful and teary-eyed about Emerson growing up to be the big brother. I don't worry about having enough love for both of them and I don't worry about Emerson feeling misplaced. And yet, pretty much every other mother I know who's having a second child or just had one is feeling this way. Is it because I'm a cold-hearted bitch? Is it because Emerson's developmental delays make the "growing up" part seem painfully slow? Maybe both?
I'm thinking it may be more the former. I think this because I am also not nearly as eager to meet this new baby as I was to meet Emerson. Don't get me wrong, I know this baby will bring our family to new heights of love. I know I won't feel complete until he's safely tucked in my arms and I can't wait to see what he'll look like. But I also know the sleepless nights and hard work ahead!
This morning, Emerson and I slept in until 11am (no matter how hard we try lately, he wants to stay up until 10 or 11 and then sleep in until the same time the next morning). I have to admit, it's been pure heaven and I am soaking up every minute of it because I know it won't last much longer!
Later this afternoon, a man came over to buy a baby monitor I had posted for sale on Craigslist. The moment I opened the door, I could see he was a man on the edge. He explained that he and his wife had a 3 week old daughter who was sleeping horribly and recently came down with a fever to make matters worse. They were hoping this new monitor (the kind that sets off an alarm if your baby stops breathing) would give them the peace of mind to let them rest. I tried to reassure him that it will get easier after the first month of hell, but I conveniently left out the part about how the next 10 or 11 months are only slightly better.
I suppose at least this time around, I have the reassurance that there is indeed light at the end of the tunnel and that most of the time, just surviving is good enough!
2) In the great parental competition, I am just the waterboy. (oh, don't worry - there are many more sports metaphors to come)
When you get pregnant, you start to suspect that parents are very competitive because every one is quick to offer advice and admonishment if you don't see it their way. When you have the child, you are immediately thrown into the ring and must battle it out for "who's child is the most beautiful/healthy/intelligent/coordinated/well-mannered/etc, etc." The way parents vie for their child's position at the top of the heap is sometimes subtle - just an apgar score dropped here or a "she's in the 90th percentile" there. Other times it's more obvious as one parent gloats over a new word their child learned and the next is quick to top it with the full sentence their child said the other day. It happens in playdates and on playgrounds - in coffee shops and church nurseries.
I know this not because I am a top competitor, but because I've watched it from the sidelines. I suppose one upside of having a child with developmental delays is that no one feels the need to compete with you. I've realized lately that I am like the gay friend who gets to come into the dressing room while you change - in other words, not a threat. This means that I not only witness the battles from a safe distance, parents also confide in me what they are thinking about their competitors.
I haven't quite sorted out how to feel about this status. Insulted? Relieved? I suppose at some point Emerson will be caught up to his peers and I will get a taste of what it's like out there. Or maybe the new baby will give me the opportunity sooner than I think. Either way, I should probably make the most of this cushy seat on the bench while I have it.
3) I know most people believe that you are only given what you can handle in life - what you need to teach you important lessons. I also know many parents who believe that each child is born to the perfect parents for them. If this is true for someone, or helps them get through the day, I sincerely support that. For me, however, it just does not hold true.
What is the one quality I struggle with the most? Patience. What is the one quality Emerson puts to the test on a daily basis? Patience. I suppose he is the perfect child to teach me what I need to learn. But I can't believe that was fate because I can't believe that learning a life lesson should be at the expense of a child. I think the perfect parent for a child with special needs - the kind of parent Emerson deserves - is one with enormous amounts of patience and optimism. I can think of many people who exemplify these qualities including my husband, but I am not among them.
I'd like to believe that I can somewhat make up for my deficiencies by the sheer amount of love I can show him. I can do my best to be what he needs at any given time and rest assured that Robbie will pick up where I fall down. But I will never come close to being the perfect parent for him.
The other day, we met up with some friends who just came back from a summer of visiting different meditation retreats. The one friend was confiding that the more she went within herself during these retreats, the more she struggled with the negativity that kept creeping up. At first she felt the need to change it and only be positive all the time, then she realized that maybe it was best to just accept it for what it was. Another friend agreed with her, and added jokingly, "Maybe you should make a t-shirt that says, 'I'm a bitch, but I'm at one with it.'"
I would be the first one to buy this shirt.
I am not a typical parent and I'm nowhere near the perfect parent, but I can be at one with that. Or at least I can try.
1) No matter how close we get to the arrival of the new baby (and it's coming alarmingly fast this time!), I have yet to be wistful and teary-eyed about Emerson growing up to be the big brother. I don't worry about having enough love for both of them and I don't worry about Emerson feeling misplaced. And yet, pretty much every other mother I know who's having a second child or just had one is feeling this way. Is it because I'm a cold-hearted bitch? Is it because Emerson's developmental delays make the "growing up" part seem painfully slow? Maybe both?
I'm thinking it may be more the former. I think this because I am also not nearly as eager to meet this new baby as I was to meet Emerson. Don't get me wrong, I know this baby will bring our family to new heights of love. I know I won't feel complete until he's safely tucked in my arms and I can't wait to see what he'll look like. But I also know the sleepless nights and hard work ahead!
This morning, Emerson and I slept in until 11am (no matter how hard we try lately, he wants to stay up until 10 or 11 and then sleep in until the same time the next morning). I have to admit, it's been pure heaven and I am soaking up every minute of it because I know it won't last much longer!
Later this afternoon, a man came over to buy a baby monitor I had posted for sale on Craigslist. The moment I opened the door, I could see he was a man on the edge. He explained that he and his wife had a 3 week old daughter who was sleeping horribly and recently came down with a fever to make matters worse. They were hoping this new monitor (the kind that sets off an alarm if your baby stops breathing) would give them the peace of mind to let them rest. I tried to reassure him that it will get easier after the first month of hell, but I conveniently left out the part about how the next 10 or 11 months are only slightly better.
I suppose at least this time around, I have the reassurance that there is indeed light at the end of the tunnel and that most of the time, just surviving is good enough!
2) In the great parental competition, I am just the waterboy. (oh, don't worry - there are many more sports metaphors to come)
When you get pregnant, you start to suspect that parents are very competitive because every one is quick to offer advice and admonishment if you don't see it their way. When you have the child, you are immediately thrown into the ring and must battle it out for "who's child is the most beautiful/healthy/intelligent/coordinated/well-mannered/etc, etc." The way parents vie for their child's position at the top of the heap is sometimes subtle - just an apgar score dropped here or a "she's in the 90th percentile" there. Other times it's more obvious as one parent gloats over a new word their child learned and the next is quick to top it with the full sentence their child said the other day. It happens in playdates and on playgrounds - in coffee shops and church nurseries.
I know this not because I am a top competitor, but because I've watched it from the sidelines. I suppose one upside of having a child with developmental delays is that no one feels the need to compete with you. I've realized lately that I am like the gay friend who gets to come into the dressing room while you change - in other words, not a threat. This means that I not only witness the battles from a safe distance, parents also confide in me what they are thinking about their competitors.
I haven't quite sorted out how to feel about this status. Insulted? Relieved? I suppose at some point Emerson will be caught up to his peers and I will get a taste of what it's like out there. Or maybe the new baby will give me the opportunity sooner than I think. Either way, I should probably make the most of this cushy seat on the bench while I have it.
3) I know most people believe that you are only given what you can handle in life - what you need to teach you important lessons. I also know many parents who believe that each child is born to the perfect parents for them. If this is true for someone, or helps them get through the day, I sincerely support that. For me, however, it just does not hold true.
What is the one quality I struggle with the most? Patience. What is the one quality Emerson puts to the test on a daily basis? Patience. I suppose he is the perfect child to teach me what I need to learn. But I can't believe that was fate because I can't believe that learning a life lesson should be at the expense of a child. I think the perfect parent for a child with special needs - the kind of parent Emerson deserves - is one with enormous amounts of patience and optimism. I can think of many people who exemplify these qualities including my husband, but I am not among them.
I'd like to believe that I can somewhat make up for my deficiencies by the sheer amount of love I can show him. I can do my best to be what he needs at any given time and rest assured that Robbie will pick up where I fall down. But I will never come close to being the perfect parent for him.
The other day, we met up with some friends who just came back from a summer of visiting different meditation retreats. The one friend was confiding that the more she went within herself during these retreats, the more she struggled with the negativity that kept creeping up. At first she felt the need to change it and only be positive all the time, then she realized that maybe it was best to just accept it for what it was. Another friend agreed with her, and added jokingly, "Maybe you should make a t-shirt that says, 'I'm a bitch, but I'm at one with it.'"
I would be the first one to buy this shirt.
I am not a typical parent and I'm nowhere near the perfect parent, but I can be at one with that. Or at least I can try.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Gotta Laugh
Sometimes life hands you the unexpected and all you can do is laugh. Today I spent most of my day grudgingly working on a final paper for school due this week (yes, procrastination is my middle name). When I finally typed the last painful sentence, I was so elated I convinced Robbie that we should celebrate by walking down to Washtenaw Dairy for ice cream.
The Dairy is one of those quaint local spots that draws regular customers for decades. Every morning, old men gather to discuss how the world is going to hell in a handbasket over steaming cups of coffee and local business people rush in to buy a dozen of their amazing fresh donuts to keep the office workers happy. Every evening, residents of the Old West Side gather to eat ice cream and socialize with their neighbors on the wooden benches outside. It's usually a bustling crowd of giggling teenagers, sweaty kids in soccer uniforms, over-excited dogs and shuffling elderly couples. In short, it is a snapshot of life the way you wish it always was.
Despite the atmosphere, we usually don't linger too long since our dog and child are less than patient at this stage. So, as usual, we got our ice cream, talked with some people we knew for a bit, and then headed home with our cones in hand. We were only about 2 minutes into the walk when my cone suffered some sort of structural damage and dark chocolate ice cream immediately ran out in a stream - right onto my white tank top. It made a lovely brown trail down my enormous pregnant belly, which I proceeded to make even worse by trying to rub it away with a napkin.
There is truly no dignity in motherhood. I spent the rest of the walk home parading my brown-streaked belly for everyone to see (Robbie, bless his heart, did his best to cover me and cross the street when people approached us, but the great weather meant that every other house had a porch full of people watching us). Between laughing at myself and trying to frantically lick up the rest of the melting ice cream that continued to pour down my hands, I got home with a major stomachache and a lot of laundry.
To top off the night, my parents sent me this video from the Salt Lake City Jazz Festival which had me in fits again. The dance move at the end is truly worth watching:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDwYOouZIXA
The Dairy is one of those quaint local spots that draws regular customers for decades. Every morning, old men gather to discuss how the world is going to hell in a handbasket over steaming cups of coffee and local business people rush in to buy a dozen of their amazing fresh donuts to keep the office workers happy. Every evening, residents of the Old West Side gather to eat ice cream and socialize with their neighbors on the wooden benches outside. It's usually a bustling crowd of giggling teenagers, sweaty kids in soccer uniforms, over-excited dogs and shuffling elderly couples. In short, it is a snapshot of life the way you wish it always was.
Despite the atmosphere, we usually don't linger too long since our dog and child are less than patient at this stage. So, as usual, we got our ice cream, talked with some people we knew for a bit, and then headed home with our cones in hand. We were only about 2 minutes into the walk when my cone suffered some sort of structural damage and dark chocolate ice cream immediately ran out in a stream - right onto my white tank top. It made a lovely brown trail down my enormous pregnant belly, which I proceeded to make even worse by trying to rub it away with a napkin.
There is truly no dignity in motherhood. I spent the rest of the walk home parading my brown-streaked belly for everyone to see (Robbie, bless his heart, did his best to cover me and cross the street when people approached us, but the great weather meant that every other house had a porch full of people watching us). Between laughing at myself and trying to frantically lick up the rest of the melting ice cream that continued to pour down my hands, I got home with a major stomachache and a lot of laundry.
To top off the night, my parents sent me this video from the Salt Lake City Jazz Festival which had me in fits again. The dance move at the end is truly worth watching:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDwYOouZIXA
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Picture Time
My Boys
Mackinac or Bust!
We've added some new pics to "15-18" (sorry they are mixed in with old ones) and we finally posted our pics from our Memorial Day trip to Mackinac Island.
Mackinac or Bust!
We've added some new pics to "15-18" (sorry they are mixed in with old ones) and we finally posted our pics from our Memorial Day trip to Mackinac Island.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Oh Poop
Yes, my life has reached a point that inspires me to write an entire blog post about poop. As a child, I remember reacting to the bathroom humor of the men in my life (mainly dirt-smeared neighbor boys and raunchy uncles) with utter horror. Several times I gritted my teeth and thought, "Never, EVER will I marry a man like that and have disgusting boy-children like that. NEVER!"
But when you marry a man after only dating him for two weeks, sometimes you miss a few details. Ok - I can't totally blame it on the short courtship when it was at least partly blind love. He told me his favorite movies were "When Harry Met Sally" and "There's Something About Mary." I just chose to focus on how sweet his first choice was and ignore the second. I also should have known what was coming when he told me his family considers one's poop to be a great source of medical information and therefore they discuss it regularly (no pun intended).
In any case, here I am, the wife of a man who gets endless joy out of horrifying me with typical "guy" humor. For instance, our nephew Alex came to visit from Texas this week and so not only did Robbie spend the entire visit wrestling with him and our little cousin Ricky, I also heard numerous comments from him along the lines of, "I'm going to sit on your face and fart!" Then he would make a farting noise and all the boys, including my only 18-month-old son, would giggle.
People wonder why I am so terrified of having not one - but TWO - sons. Can't they see I am drowning in the testosterone?!
As if the bathroom humor weren't enough, I also have to deal with the real poop deal on a daily basis. Every morning I wake up and start my morning by changing a poopy diaper, yelling at Robbie for leaving a stinky bathroom, scooping dog poop out of the dog's litter box, and trying to find one minute of my own time to elegantly retire to the "abode," which usually ends with Emerson flinging open the bathroom door (it doesn't latch properly) and whining to be picked up. Pretty soon we are going to add to this mix yet another boy who, for at least the first few months of life, will contribute half a dozen more mustard-yellow poopy diapers to a day already brimming with....well, you get the point.
After that, the years stretch out ahead of us, filled with belching competitions, feigned farts and poop jokes. I'll do my best (for the sake of my sons' future spouses) to counterbalance their education with lessons in things like table etiquette, proper cleaning, cooking and gift buying 101.
[Which brings me to a strange side-note. I was looking at reviews of Danish aebleskiver pans the other day - in the hopes of reviving my grandmother's tradition of making them on Christmas morning - when I came across this quote:
"I want to teach my sons how to cook aebleskivers themselves because they will be out on their own soon, and it never hurts to be able to attract a woman who loves Danish delicacies."
I found this immensely humorous for some reason. What does a woman who loves Danish delicacies look like - and do my sons really want to attract her?]
Anyway, I suppose poop and other disgusting things are ingrained somehow in the y chromosome. I once had a boyfriend that I thought would definitely break the stereotype. He was snooty and fastidious all rolled up in an effeminate package - certainly not the sort to tell a bathroom joke or see a Jim Carrey movie. But, alas, even he eventually revealed a secret delight in discussing all things feces.
I guess the point is that I know probably shouldn't be so hard on my husband. I'll still grit my teeth and give him the stink-eye whenever he says or does something nasty, but sooner or later I have to accept my fate. I love him dearly and I will love both our sons just as much....even after they learn to play the national anthem with their armpits.
But when you marry a man after only dating him for two weeks, sometimes you miss a few details. Ok - I can't totally blame it on the short courtship when it was at least partly blind love. He told me his favorite movies were "When Harry Met Sally" and "There's Something About Mary." I just chose to focus on how sweet his first choice was and ignore the second. I also should have known what was coming when he told me his family considers one's poop to be a great source of medical information and therefore they discuss it regularly (no pun intended).
In any case, here I am, the wife of a man who gets endless joy out of horrifying me with typical "guy" humor. For instance, our nephew Alex came to visit from Texas this week and so not only did Robbie spend the entire visit wrestling with him and our little cousin Ricky, I also heard numerous comments from him along the lines of, "I'm going to sit on your face and fart!" Then he would make a farting noise and all the boys, including my only 18-month-old son, would giggle.
People wonder why I am so terrified of having not one - but TWO - sons. Can't they see I am drowning in the testosterone?!
As if the bathroom humor weren't enough, I also have to deal with the real poop deal on a daily basis. Every morning I wake up and start my morning by changing a poopy diaper, yelling at Robbie for leaving a stinky bathroom, scooping dog poop out of the dog's litter box, and trying to find one minute of my own time to elegantly retire to the "abode," which usually ends with Emerson flinging open the bathroom door (it doesn't latch properly) and whining to be picked up. Pretty soon we are going to add to this mix yet another boy who, for at least the first few months of life, will contribute half a dozen more mustard-yellow poopy diapers to a day already brimming with....well, you get the point.
After that, the years stretch out ahead of us, filled with belching competitions, feigned farts and poop jokes. I'll do my best (for the sake of my sons' future spouses) to counterbalance their education with lessons in things like table etiquette, proper cleaning, cooking and gift buying 101.
[Which brings me to a strange side-note. I was looking at reviews of Danish aebleskiver pans the other day - in the hopes of reviving my grandmother's tradition of making them on Christmas morning - when I came across this quote:
"I want to teach my sons how to cook aebleskivers themselves because they will be out on their own soon, and it never hurts to be able to attract a woman who loves Danish delicacies."
I found this immensely humorous for some reason. What does a woman who loves Danish delicacies look like - and do my sons really want to attract her?]
Anyway, I suppose poop and other disgusting things are ingrained somehow in the y chromosome. I once had a boyfriend that I thought would definitely break the stereotype. He was snooty and fastidious all rolled up in an effeminate package - certainly not the sort to tell a bathroom joke or see a Jim Carrey movie. But, alas, even he eventually revealed a secret delight in discussing all things feces.
I guess the point is that I know probably shouldn't be so hard on my husband. I'll still grit my teeth and give him the stink-eye whenever he says or does something nasty, but sooner or later I have to accept my fate. I love him dearly and I will love both our sons just as much....even after they learn to play the national anthem with their armpits.
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