Wisdom

I think maybe it comes from being an only child for so long before my brother was born.

I've always been bossy, and I've always known what I wanted.

In first grade, Ms. Yoder asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Every other girl said either "nurse" or "teacher." I said "actress."

When I was 10, my best friend Pam and I wrote out our life plans. (We were extremely ambitious -- or deluded -- for 10 year olds.) They went something like this:

1. Graduate from college.


2. Become zoologists or veterinarians. (I'm not convinced we understood that numbers 1 and 2 were related. We just knew we were supposed to go to college for some reason.)


3. Meet and marry handsome men (professions optional) in a double wedding ceremony (obviously).


4. Move to Africa, so we could study jungle animals. (We had no idea what this entailed, but I'm pretty sure I was envisioning living in a zoo that someone else would maintain for us while we got to pet the tigers whenever we wanted. That sounds awesome, doesn't it?)


5. Have kids on the same day (obviously).

And...that's where it ended. Not surprisingly, our life plan closely resembled a fairy tale -- there were no actual details. Our husbands had no discernable qualities other than being handsome and being willing to put up with our propensity for living with elephants, and there was zero concern for what everyday life would be like. Would any of us know how to cook? Who would pay us to do this ridiculous job? Who cares? Wheee!! Let's go play Barbies now.

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My life today? It's not a fairy tale.

We live in Ohio.

There are no tigers.

I write for a living instead of gracing the stage on Broadway or living a constant African safari.

My husband is handsome, but that's where his resemblance to my 10-year-old fantasy husband ends.

Our life is so much better than I was ever even able to dream it.

About 10 years and two months ago, my now-husband took my hand and led me into the bedroom of the house we'd just purchased together.

With a tell-tale small white box in his hand, he got down on one knee and said, "Baby, I just want to ask you one question." As I gasped and started getting teary, he looked up at me and continued, "Would accept these earrings for your birthday, and then help me up off the floor? My knee hurts."

Sneaky and mean. I forgot to put that on my list of husband pre-requisites.

10 years ago today, he got down on one knee again, with another white box in his hand, and he asked me for real. He claims I took forever to answer. I was just making sure there was actually a ring in there this time.

And then, exactly one year later, we did this:




And although we of course had plans for our life together, I don't think I ever really thought about what day-to-day life would be like.

How much football there would be.

How little cooking I would do.

How many times we'd argue.

How much hard stuff we'd have to endure and work through and somehow come out on the other side of.

And how not once, not even once, would I consider my life with anyone else.

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When I think about the last nine years, I cannot believe we're the same two people in those pictures up there.

Together, we have grown calmer. We have gotten saner. We have weathered anger and sorrow and boredom and hilarity.

We have grown up. We have grown together. We have become SO MUCH BETTER.

This husband of mine...I wish I could adequately explain how special he is. Not many people know him the way I do; he's quiet and keeps to himself quite a bit, and he saves the best parts of himself for those who know him best.

I could write paragraphs and pages about the times he's built me up when I felt completely worthless, and the times he's held me as I cried and felt utterly hopeless. About how his faith has saved me (and us) more times than I can count. About his amazing, unfaltering belief in me that leaves me staggered and awed.

All those things are true.

But I'd rather tell you about this morning, when he woke me up at 5 a.m. to watch me read a note he'd written for our anniversary, watching me, eyes smiling as I got to the parts that made me laugh uncontrollably. (It takes a lot to make me belly laugh when I can barely see out of both eyes.)

This man wrote me three pages explaining how much he loves the "mundanity" of our lives. The way I never let him finish singing a song. The way I constantly drop food on my boobs. The way I spend days in my pajama pants that say "Big Money" all over them.

The fact that, in just five and a half months, we'll be calling ourselves Mama and Daddy. (Oh...I cannot tell you how just the thought of that makes me just shiver. And cry. Both in a good way.)

This man, this man I married. Our marriage. It's imperfect and weird and often smelly and mostly loud and occasionally rocky and sometimes so calm it might look completely boring.

I love it and him so much I feel my heart is exploding. (Probably all over my boobs.)

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There's no way to adequately say how much, but baby: I love you. This year is going to be epic and scary and insane and sleep-deprived. I cannot wait to do it all with you.

Happy anniversary.

We're getting a new roommate.

A tiny, squishy-faced roommate.

Whose breath smells like rainbows.

And who's guaranteed to completely turn our lives upside-down...

(Waving hello.)

...in the very, very best kind of way.

ETA: March 5, 2012

Our hearts are full to bursting.

More to come. Much, much more to come.

:)

My turn.

Dear readers, I intended to write today about Bubba, to say my piece about the wonderful family member we just lost.

I was going to talk about how he, with one "get-me-outta-here!" look on our first meeting, stole our hearts. How he saved Murray and, really, his daddy too, from their grief over losing Hobbes. How his gentle, I-love-everyone-and-I-really-mean-it attitude made him, in my eyes, the perfect dog for kids, and how devastated I am that he'll never meet ours.


But leave it to my husband to show me up.

T asked me several months ago if he could be the first person on my blog to talk about Bubba. Since he never asks me for anything, of course I said yes. I'm ashamed to admit, I never dreamed he'd do quite that amazing of a job of it. It's true, he isn't a writer. But he captured perfectly what kind of dog Bubba was, and just what he meant to our little family.

There's really nothing I can say that's any better than that.

So instead, I'll say this:

Thank you.

To all of you who've reached out to me/us this week via e-mail, text, Twitter, Facebook and this blog, you have no idea what it meant to me. Just knowing you guys were thinking of us, and that you really GET why losing a "pet" means something more to us than just that -- it's sustained me, it really has. And I know it's meant the world to T, too.

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I'm sitting here in my home office, with Murray snoring at my feet, wondering if he really knows his brother is not coming back. He shows us in little ways that he does, but he isn't showing the overwhelming depression he exhibited when Hobbes died. Part of that, I'm sure, is that he's nearly eight years old instead of one. But I hope part of it is that we're handling it better ourselves this time, too, and really focusing on trying to make sure he's OK.

One thing's for sure: We all miss Bubba, and the house just doesn't quite feel the same.

Last night, I had a dream. In the nonsensical way of dreams, I was at my parents' old house with Bubba (someplace he'd never been in real life), trying to feed him pizza crust, one of his favorite things EVER, even when he was sick. He took a piece, spit it back out, then somehow sprouted human hands, enough to show me in sign language: "Tummy hurts." Just as I did on the last day of his life, my dream self said, "I know, buddy. It's OK."

And, you know? It is. As much as it hurts, we still have peace.

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Thank you, again, for indulging both T and me as we come to terms with our grief. Back to regularly scheduled programming next week, just as we're trying to get back to normal life. Have a great weekend, y'all.

A love letter

Dear T,

It really started nine years ago today, not eight.

You called me at work the day before and said, "Let's go out to dinner tomorrow night." I didn't suspect a thing until you said, "Why don't you choose someplace nice and make a reservation?" instead of "I'm thinking Casa Fiesta."

I was totally on to you.

But you still managed to surprise me.

We've just finished getting dressed, we're standing in our bedroom in our stocking feet...and you get down on the floor.

I immediately think you dropped something. Or threw out your back.

But then you look back up at me and fish something out of your pocket. And you take my hand. And you look into my eyes. And you say wonderful, beautiful words just for me. You ask me a question in that inimitable, boyish way you have. And I forget what to do, because I'm just so happy, and I can't stop looking at your handsome face, so sincere, and yet just a glint of that ornery streak I love so much. And I realize you're looking at me expectantly... Oh! Yes. YES! Yes, I will; of course I will.

Yes.

That might have been the first AND the last time we ate off of a table with a white tablecloth.

Until exactly one year later.

When we did this:

Eight years have gone by so quickly! We've made a lot of mistakes.

But this certainly wasn't one of them:



T, you are the best thing in my life. The best decision I ever made. The most generous person I know. The silliest (with your made-up songs for every situation), the most serious (about football, and the people you love), the most supportive (could.not.make.it.through.one.day.without.you), the smartest (every day you floor me), the most passionate (about me, and our future, and our families, and what you know is right...and football).

And the kindest. Watching the gentle way you care for our sick little one... I can't even talk about it.

I always knew I was capable of taking care of myself, of making it on my own, of going it alone.

But you found a way to let me keep that part of myself and somehow still be my missing piece. The love of my life. My true partner in every sense of the word.

The man who still gives me butterflies every time he calls me "Bunny."

And the man who still makes me laugh by singing songs about my butt, and manages not to roll his eyes when I call today our "Shan-iversary" every.single.year.

The two kids in that picture up there? Wow, could we tell them some stories. They have NO idea about that one thing, for example. And holy cow, that other thing is going to surprise the sh-- out of them.

And even though they knew they'd end up here, still in love, eight years later?

They had no idea it would feel this amazing.

Just think of what we'll have to look back on eight years from now! Probably even that one thing we've been talking about. And in fifty years? We'll definitely have done that other thing by then.

I can't wait.

I love you forever, no matter what.

S

Protected

Every morning when I step out of the shower...




It's entirely possible he just likes the warmth of the steam. Or the sound of the water running. Or the fresh, clean smell of my shampoo. Or the caress of the fuzzy green bathmat.

But I choose to think he's guarding his mama.

And yes, I have to step over him, precariously, every time I exit said shower. Which would be awkward even if I weren't wearing a towel, balancing on wet toes and squinting to try to see without my glasses.

And yes, it's entirely possible that I have, more than once, slipped and nearly fallen headfirst into the linen closet. And/or out the window.

Do I mind?



Nope.

Have a wonderful long weekend, y'all. And please say a prayer for me, as I'm attending an event that has the word "beer" in the TITLE, and I am not much of a drinker. Also I'm 33 now, and thus a little old for all drinking games that don't involve how many times someone says "Woohoo! Big balls!" on Wipeout. In other news: ...help?

Now she's THIS MANY.

Today is a very special day.

Today, my niece Cadence turns 2.

She's such a big girl.

So smart.

Drawing with Papa.

So beautiful.

Will you LOOK at those EYES?

So ornery.

Trying on "Unca Tommy's" shoes for oh, maybe the billionth time that day.

Oh, baby girl. You were the happiest of surprises to our little family! I pretty much live to make you laugh, and I love that you love to dance and watch the same Tinkerbell DVD over and over and over and over, and I REALLY love how you've taken my little brother and made him into a daddy.

Happy birthday, little one. Aunt Shan loves you into a million, billion pieces!

The cutest of boys

That's Murray's back he's using as a pillow. :)