I Already Know (On Saying I Love You)

I am so incredibly in love with my husband.

I tell him I hate him sometimes, often in fact, in the same lighthearted way I say I hate everything, or the cat, or even the yoga pants that have become my haphazard uniform. He fires off a pun or any number of otherwise terrible Dad jokes and I groan I hate you in response* though both of us know I could never actually mean it.

Friday was our fifth wedding anniversary so we sat in the living room completely alone, except for the cat who doesn't care about these kinds of things anyway.

"Well, now what?" we asked conspiratorially. Of each other, not the cat.

We hadn't made any plans for the day. No big date, no agenda. Just a few hours of no kids and no work, and nothing else but saying YAY MARRIAGE to accomplish.

Day In The Life (With A Side Of Anxiety)

I turn the key in the ignition and grip the steering wheel; ten-and-two, as always. I breathe. No, I heave. Sigh. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I relax.
Well, I try anyway.

I remind myself that this is a tight little spiral. Anxiety. Nothing is actually wrong. I haven't forgotten anything. Nobody is injured. I am just picking up my daughter from school, as usual. I am pulling away from the curb as usual. It is all okay.

This Is The Life I Am Supposed To Be Living

The end of last month was Christopher Robin's due date. Well, the fifth anniversary of Christopher Robin's due date, but you know what I mean. It was an anniversary that popped up on the calendar and I checked in with myself to make sure I was okay.

I was okay.

I mean, I wasn't excited about it or anything, of course, but I was okay. For reals this time. It came and went with me privately acknowledging the gravity of this missing space in my house, and then moving along with all of the fullness in my life.

One of the worst parts about being married to Ian is that Ian is a man who doesn't like custard. Maybe that doesn't sound too horrible to some people, but for someone who thinks of custard pie as a top tier comfort food, this can be problematic.

I've never been able to figure out just why he doesn't like custard. Every time I ask, I get vague I-just-don't-wanna answers that I tried to accept, but. I mean. Custard.

This Thing Is Not Like The Other

I hurried up the stairs, knowing Ian was already running a little late. He is the one to get up with the kids in the morning, ushering Jonas off to high school in one piece before settling in for good morning cuddles with Iliana. They zone out on the couch together while I make my Walking Dead way out of bed. Eventually.

(It's pretty damn cool to spend your first waking moments knowing what a great choice you made in a husband.)

Damn You, Ian, For Being Such a Good Father

I took a picture of Iliana's Elsa doll face down underneath the Christmas tree and posted it to Facebook with the caption "Elsa got way too drunk at the Christmas party" because haha subversive Disney princess humor, amirite? Then the cat licked the doll in the face and oh my god it's been a really long kind of terrible day and this is really good gin and everything is HILARIOUS right now. Shut up, I said terrible day, if laughing at plastic doll makes me feel better I'm going to take it, leave me alone.

The Merriest Kidmas

In a plastic storage bin, in the office junk room, there is a beautiful ribbon that is supposed to run through the branches of our pre-lit artificial Christmas tree. It is a beautiful ribbon and fills me with great joy when it does its job of tying together the whole Christmas ensemble. It's even worth the pain of keeping it in there just so, without having it bunch up here or sag gracelessly there as the whole tree gets rearranged by tiny, excited hands.

But this year it sits in its little (not little) storage bin and I honestly couldn't be happier.

And Other Ridiculous Shit I Send My Husband

One of the things that I really love to do when I'm bored is send Ian messages using only the suggested text in my phone. It's way better than real conversations we have sometimes. I may be the only one who thinks that.

Me: I am so sorry for your loss of the potty training potty.
Ian: I'll never get over that, y'know
Me: We can also provide for dinner if she had it all to the Seattle Times.
Ian: ?
Me: What?
We need better reproduction of my family roots.


To tell you the truth, I was pretty annoyed at having to go to the Christmas party hosted by Iliana's preschool. I'm reluctant to join in big rowdy things like that during the best of times, but right now it seemed even more overwhelming. So we tried really hard to bail.

Usually it's easy to talk Iliana into a bear-shaped pancake from our favorite restaurant, but tonight? No dice.


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