A Boy and His Dog

Turned around from ironing yesterday to find Henry laying with his paw possessively on the baby, who was pulling the dog's face fur.

They love each other.

When I say I was ironing, I don't mean that I was ironing my husband's shirts like a good wife, I mean I was ironing fabric to sew with. Don't go thinking I've become all domesticated and organized.

I know I have more pet peeves than the average person

"If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me."
Alice Roosevelt Longworth

I hate it when people emphasize non-emphasizable vowels in writing. If I'm excited, I type, "Hooray". If I'm really excited, I type, "Hooraaaaaay", because that's how you speak it - prolonging the last "a". When I come across something like, "Adorableeeee" (via facebook stalking this morning), I cringe. Because you don't pronounce the "e" at the end, so you can't prolong it's pronunciation. It doesn't make sense.

I had more written, but I erased them, because it makes me sound terribly cranky. Come to think of it, I haven't had breakfast yet.

Aha!

For the Deployed

Really it's just a work-up, but he requested pictures of his son.

Would it shock you if I told you that I was singing Bon Jovi to him in this one to make him smile?

I think this picture makes him look just like Jon did when he was little.

There has been much sewing in the house since my mom came into town. A little boy quilt was finished in case my niecew turns out to be male. A little girl coat is halfway done and I almost love it too much to give away. A dress for yours truly has been cut out and will soon be begun and I have fabrics for a girl quilt (in case said niecew turns out to be female) and fabrics for another boy quilt that forced me to purchase them while shopping for girl fabrics. I am merely a victim and am to be pitied, not blamed. Girl Scout cookies may help.

All that to say, my house is a little messy. Why I can't do everything and be the best at everything is beyond me. If only I had someone to blame other than myself. Again... I can't take the blame, because I'm the victim.

Girl Scout Cookies.

Thin Mints.

I love you, Husband. Come home soon.

(I'll be the fat one with a messy house and Thin Mint crumbs on her shirt).

Marked

I was reading through some old entries in my journal (it says something about how dedicated I am to journaling that I've had the same journal for four and a half years) and I found one from a month after Jon and I got married. I wrote a prayer in it, which struck me and I think I could pray this every day for the rest of my life:

"Make us holier because of each other, but let us LOVE each other beautifully and stubbornly and righteously... Be our everything. Give us wisdom and perseverance and strength to live out that wisdom... Let your love be in us and let that love mark us and change us."

As I re-prayed the above today, I've seen God work these things in our marriage, but I have a deeper realization of our need for Him to keep doing so.

With Valentine's Day coming up, I am truly grateful for my best friend and humbled that God gave him to me.

"Oh God who hast consecrated the state of matrimony to such an excellent mystery... look mercifully on these thy servants." From The Book of Common Prayer

Musings on Success Envy*

I have a thing about education. Some people want to be famous, some want to be rich. I want to be highly educated. At first it sounds harmless, because education is a good thing, but naturally the carnal monster in me takes that good thing and makes it about status. Highly educated people… people with multiple PhDs… they’ve got it going on. Nobody can argue with someone like that (unless they, too, have multiple doctorates), which is half the draw. There are very few people with those kind of credentials in this world and chances are, I’ll run into maybe a couple. So if I had myself a PhD or two, I would win every argument and people would ask for my professional opinion, which I would give, quite humbly. I crave the chance to give a “humble” opinion that everyone wants to hear.

When I put it that way, maybe I should just go to law school. I do love winning a good, well reasoned argument. Life is a game and I intend to WIN. That’ll show ‘em.

So really my problem, and, if I may, the problem of those fame-seekers, is that we want to be respected and recognized for our accomplishments. We just have to accomplish something first.

People that want to be rich are just selfish.

Just kidding. I want money, too. Because then, I could humbly distribute it to the less fortunate.

It would be easy to say, “Oh. My motivation is impure. I should not finish graduate school if that’s the real reason I want to get my Master’s.” But that doesn’t fix it, because then I make other things about success. I judge myself on how good of a cook I am or how clean my house is. Whether I can make that pillow/those curtains/that skirt myself. Whether I dress well. It doesn’t matter what I do, I’m hopelessly addicted to doing the BEST in EVERYTHING and doing it FASTEST. Rarely am I content to admit that I don’t know anything about such and such a subject and be content with not knowing.

Lima beans. I know nothing about the horticulture and business of lima beans. And I am content not knowing.

But that’s about it.

Here’s the glory of a lazy person: they’re typically pretty content not doing stuff or being good at stuff or having accolades. Motivated people get all the credit and none of the satisfaction. How good can that be? Give a lazy person a tv and a remote and they’re happy while I scrub and sew and study and sweat myself into discontentment.

There must be a middle ground, but pat me on the back if I can manage to stay there more than 10 minutes per year.

But if I could, if I could balance motivation and contentment, that would show ‘em.

And I would show them (humbly, of course).

*I was going to title this, "Succenvy", but when you say it aloud, it sounds like, "Sexenvy" which is something I do not know about and am content not knowing about. That and lima beans.

It's the Jeans

I've canceled my last two hair appointments. One got the axe at the last minute, which is never something to be proud of. So today, even when I didn't have a sitter, I had to go. I wore the skinny jeans of post-pregnancy fame.

Because I wore the jeans that Nathan had previously peed on and spit up on several times, he felt the need to one-up himself. He gets that from me.

So he pooped on my jeans and my shirt when I was trying to keep him quiet. In the middle of my haircut. He does not get that from me.

There I sat for the last half of my haircut, smelly and a bit uncomfortable with the whole "baby poop on my clothes" issue while Nathan (returned to his carseat for reasons that rival radioactive waste leakage) screamed. He eventually fell asleep, sucking his thumb and sitting in his own mess while I tried not to think about it.

Every so often my hairdresser would fake a smile and laugh as if to say, "I'm having my tubes tied. Tomorrow."
Nathan Butterfield. The best thing that ever happened to birth control.

You turn your back for one second...

We are dog sitting. His name is Gunner and he and Henry are best friends.

Today when Nate woke up from his nap, I greeted him enthusiastically, cooing and smiling. Gunner came running in to see what was getting so much attention. He peeked into the crib and I thought, "Aww! I'll get a picture."
Then I took Nathan out to the living room to feed him. Several minutes later, I heard the thump of a dog jumping on the bed. I had just made our bed, so I hollered "Get down!" to whichever dog had decided to mess it up. Nothing. I picked Nate up and went to investigate. No dog on the bed, but when I passed the nursery, I saw this:
My dog can barely jump on the couch.

Henry is baffled, since he has no athletic ability whatsoever and cannot fathom how this happened.

I admit that I told him to stay put while I ran for the camera, but as soon as I had these pictures I made him get down... which he did with ease.

Maybe he liked the attention I was giving Nathan and wanted some of his own, so he jumped in. Maybe he was looking for Nathan.

Maybe he's a mountain goat with a long, drooly tongue.