I Don't Understand My Man

I am emotionally high maintenance.

I get that.

And really, I've never claimed to be other. While Robert and I were still dating, before there was even a ring in his pocket, I warned him that I was emotionally high maintenance. He didn't believe me.

But now, after all these years, you'd think that he would understand me a bit and realize that I wasn't joking in the slightest when I warned him. In fact, I was probably underestimating my needs. Still, I would think that by now, particularly after these last three grueling years, he would believe me.

I think the man still hopes that one day I'll be less needy.

Last night, as I was agonizing over Robert being gone and needing validation and assurance that I am loved. (I know, I'm one of those women.)

I asked him, "Are you really going to miss me?"

To which Robert scoffed and answered with another question, something along the lines of "Are you going to miss me?"

Finally, after much wheedling and back and forth he said that he would miss me.

I asked the clincher, "Why?"

I think Robert was starting to think he wouldn't miss me quite so much.

He got quite annoyed and wouldn't answer the question and then I got annoyed and what I meant to be a sweet, simple conversation validating our relationship became a bit of an argument.

So he asked me why I would miss him.

I paused to think and he totally thought he won.

Then I said, "I will miss your presence in the home and being able to hug you and kiss you. I will miss talking with you and pawning the kids off on you whenever you get home from work."

Finally he gave me an answer and it was sweet. (I'm his best friend.)

But here's what I don't get, what's the big deal with me asking the "Why will you miss me?" or "Why do you love me?" questions every once in a while. If I asked every night, I could see how that would be greatly annoying.

But every once in awhile?

Isn't that part of being in a relationship, taking time to validate each other and reassure each other of our commitment and love? I look it at as saying "I love you" in essay form. Every once in a while, how could that not be a good thing?

Because every now and then, I do need to hear the answers. I need to know why he would want to be with such a crazy, emotionally high maintenance flaky girl.

Maybe it's just me but I don't get why it's such a big deal.

And yes, I am so emailing this to Robert.

My Bathroom

So, I'm leaving this morning and this is the state of my bathroom.

(By the way, the toilet seat is permanently stained that way and yes, we're replacing it.)

Robert will be fixing things while I'm gone- putting in a new tub and shower and floor and fixing any rot. And yes, the kids are staying here.

Now that's a brave, brave man!

Love you dear!

Being Home

I cannot even convey how wonderful it is to be home, in Robert's arms. *sigh of contentment*

My DH

Robert is the most amazing man I've ever met.

He works hard for his family at a job that is physically difficult. He has chronic back problems and his job as an auto technician isn't easy on his back. Yet he gets up and works every day no matter how badly he hurts or how much he walks like an 80 year old. When we're gone he works on the home (I have a beautiful new front porch) trying to make our poor-white-trash-house look a little more respectable.

He loves licorice (even the black stuff - we all have our failings) and Dots and Gummis and all the chewy candy, which is great for me because that means my chocolate goes completely untouched. We are so sympatico!

He is emotional evenness to my roller coaster. I will be up and down and happy and sad and laughing and crying and screaming and silent and he just is. He listens, he holds me when I cry (letting his chest or his shirt get sopping wet) and he listens to my stupid jokes and stories (occasionally laughing like when I drag my butt across the floor imitating the Stanley Steamer dog) without complaint.

He has high standards for household cleanliness and I'm convinced that he would have loved being the man of the house in the '50's but he's trying to get over that. He does the dishes when I'm burnt out from housework and kids and too tired (or even when I just don't want to because, well, dishes are not my favorite thing). He vacuums and organizes my pantry beautifully so I can actually find things.

He has always eaten anything that I have made him for dinner. Which is saying something because he used to work as a chef and makes the most delicious food. (Seriously? Mouth so happy! I love it when he surprises me with a Robert concocted meal; I am never disappointed.) I remember being a newlywed and I cooked pork that was overdone and dry and bland. He took a bite and said, "This is good." He then ate the rest of his potatoes and other sides but didn't eat much of the pork chop. I've learned that when he really likes it, he will eat it all and maybe more and he will eat the leftovers. If he doesn't, he won't say one bad word about it but he will slyly try to get out of eating it.

By the way, did I mention he cooks for me? He has made me candies and chocolate chocolate cake too when the moment necessitated it. And the end result of all this good food lovin', he never complains about my weight. Never. He thinks I'm hot. I look in the mirror and frankly, I don't see the attraction at all. But he does. And I'm so grateful for that.

He is the most amazing father. Really. Lots of times I think he is a better father than I am a mother. He listens to the kids and talks with them. He patiently teaches them new things and allows them to engage in his adult activities (gardening, building things in the garage and cooking). I'm much more prone to tell them to go play while I finish it up faster and more neatly than with helpers. He plays with them and reminds me to let them be kids. They all adore daddy and I'm grateful for the balance he brings to my parenting.

He grows a beautiful vegetable garden (everyone gives me the credit but I'm quick to steer them his way - really, I'm not being humble I'm just trying to get out of giving gardening lessons in Relief Society) including tomatoes and every year he makes me fresh from the garden salsa. Yum! In fact, that is one of our favorite meals: fresh salsa, chips, homemade guacamole and Daisy sour cream with a Weinhardt's root beer.

I don't even know how to describe this but over the last three years he has stepped up to the plate in the most amazing way. My mother's death has been a difficult thing for me to accept and move past and he has been patient and loving the whole way. He took care of the kids and the house when I could barely get dressed for the day. He has encouraged me to get help, partly for his own sanity - it's hard on him to see me depressed - but also because he worries about my health and happiness. And when I get cranky for no apparent reason every June and July, he loves me anyway.

Further, he himself has grown and begun to see things from new angles. He has mellowed and worked actively to make better choices and to be the best he can be, regardless of the choices of others.

He supports me. This blog was a scary thing for him initially; he is private and likes to control his world and this opens a window to the world. He and I have different opinions and views on many things but he loves that I am speaking my mind more, even on controversial subjects. He is constantly reminding me not to care about what other people think. He tells me that I should just be concerned with God and with myself and sometimes him, but that really I need to be true to myself and God and not worry about the rest.

He is not a morning person, not in the least. We have learned, through much trial and error, that the best choice in the morning is just not to engage at all. I make sure he's up in time to get to work (15 minutes before he has to be there) and then I stay out of his way. It works well although I never miss an opportunity to remind him that I would like a good-bye kiss in the morning but I'm not holding my breath. Occasionally there are skirmishes in the morning and when there are, he will call about an hour later from work and apologize (if he's the one at fault). I love that he takes responsibility for his choices. I'm trying to get better at that. Historically I have not been the best at saying that I'm sorry or that I'm wrong.

I'm not sure if anyone will read this all the way to the end but I did just want to say that I love my husband and I love who is he now and where we are headed together. And no, our anniversary (11) is not until September.

Robert's Home!!!

And I am so happy!!!

Robert's Day

I thought, after my homage to my father, that I needed a word or two about my husband. Nothing too sappy. I think his day was, overall, good. I let him sleep in until 12:45pm. How is this possible? We were complete heathens and completely skipped church. Yup. That's us. I'm sure my friends are worried about my activity level. Me? As I always tell them, I'm holding out for cheesecake and friend chicken (I really like the barbecued wings from KFC) as gifts of fellowship on our doorstep; despite my many jokes, no one has ever actually brought some. Still, hope springs eternal....And yes, I know he gave up any opportunity to shamelessly steal 8 cookies from some unsuspecting young man or woman but for him, the sleep was worth it.

I did wake him up briefly at 10:30am to give him his card with a picture of our new grill - our old one is so bad that he took off the last bit of grill that hadn't rusted through and was using it over a fire pit in the back yard to cook steaks - but no actual grill as I didn't want to lift it, wanted to surprise him and thought he'd prefer not having to assemble it. It should be ready for pickup on Thursday but I think he's going to pick it up tomorrow as he'd rather have the grill NOW than wait.

Back to the point of this post - me and all my hard work. I tended the kids (read: I let the kids watch TV all morning - hey it was good stuff, Liken, Living Scriptures and no Zathura no matter how many times they asked), I fed them breakfast (Read: I let the kids eat all the cereal and Poptarts their little hearts fancied.), while I watched Sense and Sensibility, the BBC version. Kids happy, Mom happy, Dad happy, it's a win/win/win; Stephen Covey would be so proud! I did get motivated around noon to make lunch, which was actually breakfast - eggs, bacon and pancakes.

Lulu cracked the eggs (I should have gotten a picture). I had egg gook and shells all over the counter, a dozen eggs and countless bits of shell in a glass bowl. I whirled it all up and let it sit and I think most of the shells drifted toward the bottom. The eggs had a bit more texture but nothing large enough as to actually crunch on my teeth.

Quinn tended the bacon. I, however, forgot to put a plate under the grease hole (our dripping pan is broken) and was left with this:

Mmm...mmm...good! But the bacon was fabulous. The only bad thing is I don't believe in paper towels. I mean, I know they exist and all but I'm cheap. My SIL Julie says I'm value oriented but I think I'm just actually cheap, to the point that I probably squeak when I walk, and I can't see the point of spending money on paper towels that are just thrown away when I can use a regular towel just as well and wash it for pennies. This was one of those moments, however, when I regretted not following my spontaneous shopping desires for paper towels (dare I say inspired desire?) and had nothing with which to mop up this mess. Toilet paper to the rescue!

So Robert woke up to a plateful of two over easy eggs ("They weren't over easy, they were over HARD!" interjects Robert whilst I type. Okay, they were a little overcooked but I was trying to read blogs and cook at the same time; why waste time when you can multi-task?), two pieces of toast, and all but 4 pieces of bacon out of the 1 lb. package (not including, of course, the bacon I ate while cooking).

Robert spent a few hours with his dad while the kids and I stayed home and thought about cleaning up a bit. I think we finally did at about 4pm, coincidentally just moments before Robert walked in the door; I've got this SAHM thing down to a science! We watched the Jimmy Neutron Movie as a family (read: we sat together on a couch while everyone watched this movie for the umpteenth time and I slept. My daughter actually patted my cheek because I started to snore) and then went to Liz's house for ice cream floats. And yes, we still hadn't eaten dinner. (The kids had been snacking on pancakes all afternoon - they were fine.)

The kids played outside; Rob, Liz and I watched a show about ice truckers, meaning men who drive semi-trucks on roads made out of ice overlaying rivers and the Arctic Ocean. Soo a job I do not want! We came home and made PBJs for the kids and now here I sit.

I think the day went well, but let's hear it from the horse's mouth.

"Rob, how was your day?"

"Eh....itz okay." *sigh*

"Was there anything you liked about the day?"

"I gotta sleep....I like the other poptarts better. I threw the box up here hoping I'd have some...."

("Oops," thinks Maraiya, "I guess I shouldn't have fed them to the wolves this morning.")

"Anything else you'd like to say to my adoring fans?"

"No, I don't do blogs. I don't talk to a computer." Rustle, opening of poptarts. Silence.

Well, I guess that's that.

Seriously, my husband is fabulous. He puts up with me going slightly insane; he will wash dishes and tend the garden (even my flowers). He even loves my cat. He scares off pigeons and voluntarily hunts down nesting rats. He adds innuendo to the simplest phrases. Really. That one about me squeaking when I walked, yeah, he made a comment on that. I love him. I'm so smitten. I think I'll keep him. I'd post a picture of my handsome lover but, again with the paranoia.

Redneck Garage Hunting

Last night Robert and I were fed up with the pigeons roosting on the wires above our drive. We have an extraordinary amount of pigeon poop next to our mailbox and while I don't think I'm missish, I really don't want to go tracting through dung. Rob got out his pellet gun and proceeded to shoot the little buggers. He tagged a couple off them (not one died darnit!) and they flew away. He then walked into the garage and swore. I came to investigate. He said he either stepped on something or saw something large and furry run past him (I can't remember which).

We quickly tucked the children into bed and proceeded to tear apart the garage. We have an extra fridge next to an upright freezer. Robert pulled these away from the wall and there were oodles of rat droppings and shredded insulation. Eew. Suddenly pigeon droppings aren't quite so bad. We got a broom and started sweeping and then Rob whipped out the shop vac and started cleaning out the underside of the freezer. He could see beady eyes.

Pictures this, if you will, my husband on the cement floor, brandishing a vacuum hose while I stood above him, BB gun cocked and loaded and aimed at the back end of the freezer. I felt I needed to black out some teeth and hand a piece of hay from my lips.

Robert kept trying to get the animal but couldn't so he grabbed the gun and fired under the freezer. He said it stopped twitching and I'm worried our garage will be stinking soon as we couldn't get it out from under the freezer.

We started pulling more things out of the garage. The large bags of dog food and kitty food were all unmolested as was all of our food storage (which is mostly cans). But when we pulled out some shelving, there was more poop, more insulation and a large pile of dog food - no idea where that came from. We swept it all up, boarded up the holes (hoping they will starve before they can gnaw their way free) and debated leaving our kitty out there but I was too afraid she'd get injured!

We came back in the house feeling loathsome and the dust of rat leavings in our noses. I whipped out the Dial (I'm normally against anti-bacterial soap for bathing but thought this was an important exception) and scoured our skin. Yuck.

I'm still afraid to go out the garage. Maybe I'll take to packing heat -- BB's at least.

What A Morning!

And it's only 7:18am. I didn't get out of bed until 7:10am. But already...

Rhys threw Jenny at Quinn resulting in Quinn being scratched in the middle of his forehead, underneath his eye and in front of his left ear; if it had been a knife, he would be down one ear. I asked Rhys, "Why? What were you thinking?" "I just thought it would be fun." He even laughed when I told him that Jenny was not a ball. But I think I finally got to him about the seriousness of his infraction. Now he's concerned that Quinn won't forgive him. So, I hauled Quinn in and we talked about forgiveness and I left Quinn to ponder because really, I can't force him to forgive, no matter how much I want to. *sigh* Drama, drama, drama. Why are siblings a good thing?

But, on the happy upside, (and yes, I realize that's redundant), Robert actually said to me, at 7:12am, "Hey Baby..." Hey baby! Woo woo!! You have to understand that Robert and I don't talk in the morning. I make sure he's up at 7:45am so he can get to work by 8am and then I stay out of his way, maybe grab him a Mountain Dew or Diet Pepsi if needed but I move fast and try to be invisible. He'll talk to me later when he's feeling more civil. But this morning, he said, "Hey Baby," in a completely happy tone. Like he was okay being awake.

So, it's been an amazing morning in all of 8 minutes.

Seriously...

I should not post after only 3 hours of sleep. Although, my husband thought my second post from Saturday was amusing. Then again, my husband only really finds me funny when I'm dragging my butt across the floor imitating the dog on the latest Stanley Steamer commercial; given his brand of humor, maybe I don't want to make him laugh! I will say, too, that I was reading the post to my husband aloud (Robert doesn't like to read anything other than cookbooks or hunting and fishing magazines but he likes to be read to) and my 9-year-old was standing over my shoulder. I changed "damn" to "darn" but I couldn't think of a ready substitution for "bastard." I know, soon enough he will know all those words and will no doubt be saying them, but still. I'm not ready for him to lose his innocence. Perhaps even more, I'm not ready for him to lose his image of his mother. It's nice to have someone thinking that I'm practically perfect in every way!

So I Married A Redneck

I never grew up thinking I just might be a redneck. I knew we weren't rich or terribly classy but I always figured I had too many brains to be a redneck or ever marry one. God humbles me in so many ways!

When we first bought our house, our refrigerator broke. We replaced it but didn't have time to haul the old one to the dump. It sat on our back porch. Rob's Barbie truck (one of those little ones that can't haul much) died and was parked in our garage. Our toilet stopped working and was replaced but the old one was set in the bed of the broken down pickup. How grateful I was that our house came with a garage! If it hadn't, everyone would have seen the fridge on the porch and the broken toilet in the bed of a broken truck. A few bullet holes in everything and the image would have been complete.

We've moved up a step since then. No toilets or fridges hanging around (other than the ones that are working in the house) but we do have a wreck of a camper planted by the side of the garage. (Robert assures me it will be moved. Soon.) We also have a '56 Chevy truck parked in the drive that sort-of works but is hidden under a car cover to keep it safe. Of course this means that Robert has to park on the street instead of our drive. However, our biggest redneck sign involves the huge stack of wood on the side of the garage (three rows of wood the length of the garage) and the wood block and hatchets next to the front door (so Robert can chop kindling when needed).The problem with the hatchets in the front yard (besides the redneck feel) is that we have a good friend who has taken to greeting me at the front door with one in hand. It's a eerie feeling to open your front door and see a large male with a raised hatchet smiling back at you. Happily I know it's a joke but it has given me pause as to what could happen if some unfriendly (and probably drunk or high) large male came to our front door; we have supplied him with ready weaponry. I suppose we could move the chopping block and hatchets to the back porch but then we would have to drag the kindling through the house (which is a longer path than you might think in a 1100 sq. ft. home as it has built in switchbacks) as the wood stove is directly to the left of the front door. Something about economy of movement.

We will continue, I'm sure, to look like rednecks to the neighborhood and all sundry people who drive or stroll past our lived in home. Robert isn't upset by the appellation (truth be told, I think he really likes it). Even in the heat of summer, the hatchets and the chopping block will still be there. Again with the economy of movement. And I will just have to take comfort in knowing that if a madman shows up wielding our own hatchets against us, Robert will, in true redneck fashion, simply shoot him down with the gun he keeps in the bedroom.

Blogger Virgin

So here I write at the encouragement of a friend, wanting so much to be witty and profound and finding I am neither. I'm surprised at the lack of thought in my head; doubly surprising to me as I have so many soap boxes it is often hard to find the one I use for laundry!

Today is a Saturday like any other. Robert is not here (in his defense, he is actually working as opposed to fishing). The weather outside is the lovely gray of summer/fall limbo which I so enjoy. My daughter is sitting on my lap giggling at her picture she printed off from the Super Why website (a superhero dressed by her in pink and purple and named Ariel in honor of Disney's Little Mermaid). She is alternating between smothering me (quite literally) in kisses and holding up the picture right in front of my face, thinking that my attempts to see around her and her picture to what I am typing is just me playing peek-a-boo. I have a pile of laundry calling my name (oh, wait, it has moved and now an actual finger is beckoning me!); dishes with fruit flies buzzing about reminding me that they need to be done; groceries sitting on the table because the refrigerator is full of chopped tomatoes that I need to can so I can put the groceries away. Let's not discuss the current status of my bedroom nor the great guilt of hypocrisy I feel when I tell my children to clean their rooms. All this, yet I type. Truly the evidence of a sick mind.

But, ah, at least I am a virgin no more.