I am sitting here listening to Stella scream bloody murder as Steve attempts to remove a Band-Aid from her hair… that he put there.
Me: “Why is it in her hair?”
Steve: “I told her it would hurt, but she didn’t listen. I was trying to teach her a lesson.”
For any of you who don’t already know, Steve and I met at band camp. It has been the butt of many jokes over the years, the most famous being – let’s say it all together now – “…and one time, at band camp…” Yes, it is even written in our wedding guest book. And this is just the first in a long line of odd and coincidental events that litter our 19 year relationship.
This year, we reach the year of silverware and/or wood – year 5 of wedded bliss. I kind of wish there were also a corresponding alcohol for each year. Kind of like when you go out for a meal and they offer up a nice wine pairing, “and with the spicy snapper may we suggest the 2000 Navarro Gewürtztraminer,” or more appropriately, “you have done an admirable job of not clobbering each other with croquet mallets during your 5 years of marriage – etiquette dictates that we give you a lovely añejo tequila.” Nothing says ‘I Love You’ like a traditional margarita from Casa Blanca.
Over the last 5 years, we have compiled quite a list of adventures, each of which have given us the opportunity to mine the far reaches of our relationship. They are the kind of life-forming events that allowed us to really see each other in less than perfect situations. Otherwise known as keepin’ it real.
Within weeks of our nuptuals, and in preparation for me quitting my high-paying (but otherwise miserable) job in order to go back to school, we moved out of our bitchin’ house in grown-up land and moved to a new apartment that was juxtaposed between being charming and uninhabitable. [Upside]: Imagine, if you will, a hipster, loft-style apartment with a view of a lush green cow patsture. [Downside]: It was attached to a dwelling that housed a bunch of college guys who never learned NOT to play soccer in the house. This, coupled with the fact that we would, on occasion wake up to the sight of our own breath due to the fact that these same lovely neighbors – who controlled the thermostat – decided that beer was a much better use of their money than, oh say, HEAT! We bucked up as best we could, knowing it was a short-term solution in my quest for higher education. We stumbled up and down a ladder 50 times a day, and did our best to not murder one of our neighbors for “accidentally” stealing my bike. It was amazing that, at no time, did we turn on each other in a fit of rage yelling “We had it so good!!! Who’s stupid idea was this!?!” And so we marched on.
Upon my successful completion of college, we decided we needed to push the relationship envelope a little further. And what better way to do that than to lock yourself into a car with your loved one for a 32-day road trip? Together, we experienced a brief and frightening trip into a Mexican border town, a bug infested, thunderstorming night of camping on the Florida panhandle, camping in a trailer park next to toothless-camp-site-stealing-Labatt’s-drinking-New-Yorkers, a white knuckled climb over the rockies with a near-empty radiator, a stay at a $27 a night hotel in Ely, Nevada called The 4-Sevens, a teeth-grinding drive through a tropical depression in North Carolina and of course, a drunken, two-night stay in the Big Easy. Perhaps it was the fact that Steve drove for every single mile of that trip, or that he was completely unfazed when I panicked in realizing there was a LINE TO GET BACK INTO THE UNITED STATES FROM MEXICO, or that he made sure we always had a room or a campsite booked BEFORE we got to our destination — whatever the case, we made it to the end with smiles on our faces.
We made it through the – gulp! – home purchase, and even through the – double gulp! – remodel. This is probably where one would start to see the early signs of financial stress on the relationship. I don’t know if it is to our ability to have snobbish tastes, or our need to feel like we can’t do what everyone else is doing, but each and every time we would come to the “can we afford it?” crossroads, we would invevitably end up convincing ourselves we could. I think the word I am searching for right now is ENABLER. And so, through mortgage payments and floor refinishing and concrete countertops and making coffee EVERY SINGLE MORNING on a campstove in the back yard…during the rainy season, we managed to make it through again.
And then came the mother of all relationship moments: procreation. Flash back to the baffled look on both of our faces upon realizing – “We are pregnant. Holy crap, do you realize how huge this is?” And as it turns out, it has, indeed, been very huge. (See: this entire website.)
So, here we are at year 5. Why does it work? I don’t know. But I do know this. I have a nerdy, cute, borderline OCD husband who puts up with my opinionated, loud-mouthed self, who takes care of all the stuff I won’t, who cooks & cleans (without complaint), who is spontaneous and social, and absolutely ROCKS as a dad. And most importantly, a man who I can’t imagine my life without.
Well, it took us three days, but we finally figured it out.
“beebee tinewan” = “Baby Einstein”
Pretty much every evening we head out as a family for a daily walk. It is family time – a time when Steve can ramble non-stop about nerd stuff, and Stella can get mad about halfway through, demanding that we get home RIGHT NOW! It is what some people call bonding time.
In order for the walk to be even moderately successful, it is required that we load up with a minimum set of required items. These items usually include (but are not limited to): miscellaneous chunks of food stuffed into a baggie, Stella’s hat, a blanket (it is Humboldt County after all), a beverage in a tippy cup, Stella’s play cell phone that has a recording feature (on which we have usually record a witty and clever message like “Steelllllaaaa, I am your faaaathuh”) and Stella’s dolly. The dolly is one of those types that comes equipped with a pacifier and bottle, and as such, it’s mouth is permanently formed into an O shape. She quickly comandeered the bottle for herself, chewing on it until it resembled something spit out of a wood chipper, and for a long time she would hold up the pacifier and asks me “What dat foah?” I would remind her that it is a pacifier, and that no amount of duct tape in the world was able to keep one in her mouth when she was a baby.
Lately, she has lost interest in the specific items that were designed for the purpose of fitting in that dolly’s mouth, and has instead begun to implement all those sharing skills we have been drilling into her head by dumping, pouring or shoving a little of whatever she has into that tiny little O of a mouth. Just as we were getting ready to head out the door on our walk this evening Steve realized that Stella had “shared” some of Mommy’s water with her dolly (read: spilled water all over herself, her dolly and her stroller). You think from this little episode, we would have seen what was coming next.
At one point, while Steve was nerding out about photon laser blasters or prime number halos or some such topic that had him spitting with excitement, I look down to see cheese smushed all over the dolly’s face and – you guessed it – packed full-up in that little O of a mouth. Now, you haven’t seen yummy until you have seen a bald, plastic-headed baby with cheddar cheese rubbed all over it’s head and stuffed into it’s mouth. (Steve pointed out later that it was even shoved into it’s tiny little nostrils). Upon making this grisly discovery, we quickly came to the conclusion that it would not be worth the crying fit that would ensue should we try to extricate that poor doll from the terror it was being subjected to. It would just have to wait until we got home. I mean come on, it isn’t that big of a deal – right? Wrong.
Two seconds later, we look down to see Stella’s hand placed firmly on the back of the doll’s head while she proceeds to SUCK THE CHEESE FROM IT’S MOUTH. I won’t go into any further descriptive of what it looked like, as I think it is illegal in some states to even describe such a frightening scene involving a child. And, really, do you need much more of a visual on this one?
The evening ended with Steve performing a cheese-ectomy using a Q-tip and a wet-wipe. That, and we found another reason for us to consider our child special in a way that only she is.
Doesn’t it make you want to just rub up all over it?
