Ethan told me this morning, randomly, that a Great White shark is "larger than a pick-up truck but smaller than a luxury SUV."
Wonder how much it costs to gas up a Great White shark?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Happily (?) Married
Dear Husband,
Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.
If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.
But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.
And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.
So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.
Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife
Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.
If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.
But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.
And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.
So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.
Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Overprotective
Jeff and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this weekend. We dated for three-and-a-half years before we made it legal, so I think I should get credit for that time, too. I am all about the numbers.
To celebrate the milestone, we planned to go away to the inn where our wedding was held. We have returned every year for our anniversary, even the year when I was newly pregnant with Ethan and wanted to do nothing but stay home and throw up in the wastebasket, between bites of Ben and Jerry's. This year, I was beyond excited for 600-thread count sheets and a mattress minus its own five-year-old as permanent fixture. (My close friends may recall the recent difficulties we have had convincing Ethan to stay in his own bed at night. He is winning the battle and ensuring, by default, that he will NEVER have the little brother he keeps begging for. On the upside, we are saving tons of money on birth control.)
We arranged for Jeff's parents to watch Ethan while we partook of high-thread count linens and kid-free bed. Ethan has stayed with Jeff's parents in the past, but before we ask them to baby-sit, we always have a serious discussion about whether or not it is worth the headache to try and make plans with them, or whether we just should roll the dice and take our chances with Child Protective Services by leaving Ethan home alone. Without fail, there is AT LEAST one major "issue" that needs to be addressed before Ethan heads up there. And without fail, Jeff and I get so worked up about it, we spend the first day of our trip ignoring each other while we unclench our teeth.
This time it was the guns. When Jeff and I started dating a million years ago, Jeff's dad took me on a tour of their house and proudly introduced me to his cache of weapons --the large gun, the little gun, the mother-of-pearl handled gun, the loaded handgun (stored in the nightstand next to the Kama Sutra manual). When I asked what the nightstand gun was for, he replied, without a trace of irony, "for protection." Which I get -- they live about two minutes from Amish country and it is common knowledge that those crazy Amish are notorious for looting and violence. One can never be too careful.
Fast forward years later, Ethan is born. Before baby Ethan spends time over at his parents, even though Ethan cannot yet hold up his head or focus his eyes, Jeff and I request that the guns be removed from their home. Why take chances with kids and guns? Jeff and I both agree that this is a non-negotiable topic. We talk to his dad, his dad seems to get it, and he tells us he will move the guns to one of his off-site storage units. Fast forward again, five years later, while reading about the recent Second Amendment Supreme Court ruling, it suddenly occurs to me that Jeff's dad owns a garage where he restores old cars. I wonder if this is where he currently stores his guns; I know that while Ethan is visiting, his dad will likely take him to the garage to see the old cars. Jeff and I want to ensure that Ethan is not running around playing at a location which houses an arsenal of unsecured firearms. Call us overprotective.
I ask Jeff to call. This immediately causes Jeff to break out in hives. I am allergic to the environment; Jeff is allergic to talking about anything remotely controversial with his parents. Because they can be mean and scary and have guns. So, after much foot-dragging, he phones and asks his dad where the guns are now stored. It turns out his dad NEVER removed the guns from the home and the guns are in the basement of his house! AND when Jeff asks him, nicely, to remove the guns, for the second time, his dad responds by telling him the guns are in the basement and Ethan never goes into the basement. When Jeff INSISTS that the guns be moved before Ethan's visit, his dad tells him that he can put the guns in the trunk of his car. Which is the same car his dad will use Ethan to drive back and forth to our house ...? And the same trunk where he will throw Ethan's overnight bag ...? Note: the man is not stupid. He has a PhD which he did not get from a correspondence school. The end result: We could not get to the same place on this gun thing so Jeff and I cancelled our trip to the inn at the last minute. I think we probably got charged for it, too, because we cancelled less than twenty-four hours out from the time of our planned arrival. I plan to invoice my in-laws.
The weekend was not a total wash, however. We went to a friend-of-a-friend's Fourth of July party. During the day, it was family pool party time, with hot dogs and popsicles and kids in life jackets and floaties cavorting around the deck. By the time we left after the fireworks, it was full-on grown-up time, with body shots and several couples appearing to fornicate in the shallow end. Not us, I should add. We threw a towel over Ethan's head and bolted. Then we stopped for Taco Bell on the drive home. So that was romantic ...
To celebrate the milestone, we planned to go away to the inn where our wedding was held. We have returned every year for our anniversary, even the year when I was newly pregnant with Ethan and wanted to do nothing but stay home and throw up in the wastebasket, between bites of Ben and Jerry's. This year, I was beyond excited for 600-thread count sheets and a mattress minus its own five-year-old as permanent fixture. (My close friends may recall the recent difficulties we have had convincing Ethan to stay in his own bed at night. He is winning the battle and ensuring, by default, that he will NEVER have the little brother he keeps begging for. On the upside, we are saving tons of money on birth control.)
We arranged for Jeff's parents to watch Ethan while we partook of high-thread count linens and kid-free bed. Ethan has stayed with Jeff's parents in the past, but before we ask them to baby-sit, we always have a serious discussion about whether or not it is worth the headache to try and make plans with them, or whether we just should roll the dice and take our chances with Child Protective Services by leaving Ethan home alone. Without fail, there is AT LEAST one major "issue" that needs to be addressed before Ethan heads up there. And without fail, Jeff and I get so worked up about it, we spend the first day of our trip ignoring each other while we unclench our teeth.
This time it was the guns. When Jeff and I started dating a million years ago, Jeff's dad took me on a tour of their house and proudly introduced me to his cache of weapons --the large gun, the little gun, the mother-of-pearl handled gun, the loaded handgun (stored in the nightstand next to the Kama Sutra manual). When I asked what the nightstand gun was for, he replied, without a trace of irony, "for protection." Which I get -- they live about two minutes from Amish country and it is common knowledge that those crazy Amish are notorious for looting and violence. One can never be too careful.
Fast forward years later, Ethan is born. Before baby Ethan spends time over at his parents, even though Ethan cannot yet hold up his head or focus his eyes, Jeff and I request that the guns be removed from their home. Why take chances with kids and guns? Jeff and I both agree that this is a non-negotiable topic. We talk to his dad, his dad seems to get it, and he tells us he will move the guns to one of his off-site storage units. Fast forward again, five years later, while reading about the recent Second Amendment Supreme Court ruling, it suddenly occurs to me that Jeff's dad owns a garage where he restores old cars. I wonder if this is where he currently stores his guns; I know that while Ethan is visiting, his dad will likely take him to the garage to see the old cars. Jeff and I want to ensure that Ethan is not running around playing at a location which houses an arsenal of unsecured firearms. Call us overprotective.
I ask Jeff to call. This immediately causes Jeff to break out in hives. I am allergic to the environment; Jeff is allergic to talking about anything remotely controversial with his parents. Because they can be mean and scary and have guns. So, after much foot-dragging, he phones and asks his dad where the guns are now stored. It turns out his dad NEVER removed the guns from the home and the guns are in the basement of his house! AND when Jeff asks him, nicely, to remove the guns, for the second time, his dad responds by telling him the guns are in the basement and Ethan never goes into the basement. When Jeff INSISTS that the guns be moved before Ethan's visit, his dad tells him that he can put the guns in the trunk of his car. Which is the same car his dad will use Ethan to drive back and forth to our house ...? And the same trunk where he will throw Ethan's overnight bag ...? Note: the man is not stupid. He has a PhD which he did not get from a correspondence school. The end result: We could not get to the same place on this gun thing so Jeff and I cancelled our trip to the inn at the last minute. I think we probably got charged for it, too, because we cancelled less than twenty-four hours out from the time of our planned arrival. I plan to invoice my in-laws.
The weekend was not a total wash, however. We went to a friend-of-a-friend's Fourth of July party. During the day, it was family pool party time, with hot dogs and popsicles and kids in life jackets and floaties cavorting around the deck. By the time we left after the fireworks, it was full-on grown-up time, with body shots and several couples appearing to fornicate in the shallow end. Not us, I should add. We threw a towel over Ethan's head and bolted. Then we stopped for Taco Bell on the drive home. So that was romantic ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)