Buzz

When I was in third grade I got the grand idea to have my mom perm my hair. I didn't have long hair, I had a mullet. And to make matters worse, I wanted her to perm the back only. I could never understand why she agreed.  As soon as I looked in the mirror I regretted it.  My mind started racing on how I could avoid school the next day.  How I could get away with wearing a hat. Could I claim I had an illness (besides Lice)  so I could cut all my hair off? I looked like Jermaine Jackson.  Tonight history repeated itself. But not with a perm. With a simple haircut gone terribly wrong.  Parker's hair was driving me crazy. It was cute in the front but very shaggy in the back. A terrible miscommunication on my part with my husband ended with my poor eight year old with as Don put it, "a hair cut that Freddy Kruger gave him” We have clippers in our house. I have only used them a couple of times but never really understood the gadgets.  So I asked Don, "the shorter the gage the longer the hair right?"  He replied, yes, just read it.  In other words, he wasn't listening to me. So I looked at the short black comb thing. 1/8 inch. I was thinking it meant that was the amount of hair it cut off... Ok, looks right. I ran it vertical up the back of Parkers 4-inch long hair.  HOlY ShIT! He has a bold spot.  Now what? I felt a lump develop in my throat. His brothers are knocking at the door. Parker has no idea what I have done. I think to myself, I can fix this, I was wrong. He looked like Victoria Beckham.

I tried to do just the back with the same gage, which left Parker with a skater cut from 1987. Parker is cool, but not cool enough to go retro.  Damn it!

OK, I ask him, do you want to have a buzz cut? I asked with a sugary excitement, "Sure" he says. Great. But as I start to buzz away its not even, it was like a time machine has taken me back to all his injuries he had suffered to his head since he was 1. He has never not had hair, as a baby he looked like a little Elvis.  Never have I even seen his scalp this closely before.  I got tired of doing the back and went to the front. Its all or nothing and went right from front to back.  The bad part about this  maneuver was that he could see my face when I realized that he looked like the burglar from Home Alone 1 when McCauley Culken burns his head with a blowtorch.

What? He asked. Let me see, he asked. "No, I'm not done.."  He looked in the mirror and exclaimed "I'm Bald!, I don't want a buzz cut!" Famous last words.  I tried to explain that he had pretty eyes and now I could finally see them.  "I look weird!" he looked at me with the big brown puppy eyes I could clearly see now, "I want to show my brothers." In my mind that could go two ways, and I had in inclining it was not going to go in my favor.  He opened the door and Finegan immediately said, " fuzzy wuzzy was a bear, fuzzy wazzy had no hair"  OH Fu%k.

But Parker surprised me. He said, only convincing to his younger fan club, "I like it, I really do, don't you want mommy to do this to you too?"  And even more to my shock, Finegan said yes! But before I could do this I called to Don.  You know how when Lucy had to tell Ricky that she did something, like ruined the oven with a big loaf of bread? , I felt like that.  As soon as I said, " I need you, I think I messed up" He was running upstairs like there was a fire. As soon as he saw him, his face turned a nice shade of pink and  his anger was obvious but he couldn't verbalize it because Parker was watching his every twinge.  He spoke through his teeth and explained that under no circumstances, will I ever cut their hair again. ever.. ok, Mr. we-need-to-try-and-save-money, and boy’s haircuts are $15 a pop. Plus, my boy’s hair grows at the rate of a chia pet on steroids. In this situation, I guess their hairy-ness is a blessing. 

Don agrees to cut Fin and Jack's hair, who have now been brain washed by their older brother into thinking that its cool.  He gets the chair ready and Parker exclaims, "NO! Mommy has to do it." Clearly he gets that I suck and misery always wants company. Don cuts the other two brothers hair. It’s not great, but it’s much better than Parker's.  

When you make a mistake, most of the time you can get over it, but this huge mistake is walking around my house, a constant reminder of why I am not a beautician. What breaks my heart is that I know that when he goes to school he is going to get teased, hell I clearly remember making fun of kids in school "Adam got a hair cut, it looks like a coconut" Karma sucks.

Now I'm trying to figure out ways to get him out of school.

By the time Don emerges after 1 solid hour of cutting hair, (funny, Parker's only took 5 min.?) He is pissed.  I try to lie and say that it doesn't look that bad and he tells me that I have PTSD and that I have convinced myself of this as a coping mechanism.  

I know its just hair, but I just feel so bad that there is nothing I can do to fix it except compliment my kid so that when kids call him a cue ball tomorrow he will remember that I said he looked like David Beckham( not Victoria) and Google imaged Beckham with a buzz to justify my claim. "See, besides the tattoos all over his body, he is cool!"

Now I know where my mom was coming from. She just tried to make me happy and it ended up a disaster.  Once again Karma making an appearance. This past Saturday we took the boys to a bounce house and while we were there a boy with a Mohawk ran by. I looked at Don and proclaimed that doing that to your child screams trailer park, even if they don't live in one. Who is trailer parking it now? Karma had made me her bitch.
And what hurts is that Parker is the one that will suffer, not me, I’m not the one with the ridiculously bad haircut. I hope the extra cookies I have packed in his lunch will ease a little bit of his pain.

So, what have I learned? Well, you would think, nothing but as I now live in a house with 3 little right said Fred’s, I can only hear, I'm Too Sexy for My hair, so sexy it hurts. And hurts it does. 

Being the Easter bunny, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy is slowly killing me.

Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel fat. Well, I'm having one of those months.  The problem is, that I can't express that to anyone but myself because Don asked me to give up saying "I'm fat" for lent. Its harder than you think.
What is really interesting is that when I would look in the hallway mirror I didn't even realize I was saying it out loud. Now he stares at me (taking his job as the lent police way too seriously), while I'm checking myself out which makes me even more self conscious so I always say "what?" get frustrated and change my outfit.
I verbally communicate most everything, Don on the other had does not. I will go out of my way to look nice and he will tell me three weeks later that he thought I looked good that night (three f'ing weeks ago).
Even when his parents were here his dad said "if you get any thinner I won't be able to see you" I think that was the nicest thing he has ever said, granted he has severe eye problems and probably couldn't see a 400 lb. woman. Still, my heart sang just a little bit.
I gain weight in my face first. That means that any profile picture I post I look like a chipmunk with nuts in my mouth...I realized it as soon as I wrote it, (get your mind out of the gutter.)
I'm an avalanche. This means that as soon as I have an inkling that I feel fluffy everything collapses around me and I eat chocolate. I figure, its no use, I'm already destined for purchasing a lazy boy and having the fire department cut me out of it.
This also is true when I work out. If I get up early, I will do well the rest of the day. Lately however, it takes all I have to get up at 6, especially when I have a Vegas baby who wakes up at 3 and 4. That means I am only able to get to the gym after work and that is not happening. I do exercise on Saturday and Sunday. I'm not a mathematician but 2 workouts cannot possibly balance out the massive consumption of dove chocolate I have been eating lately.
The reason I have been so stressed is because Easter is coming up.  I have made several trips to Target, the dollar store etc., trying to keep up the ruse that a big ass bunny hops into our house and leaves the boys baskets filled with candy and one thing they have been wanting. The Easter bunny is an equal opportunity giver too, every basket has to be equal. Plus to keep up with this ridiculous charade the dog and mommy and daddy get a basket too. Which is usually filled with toiletries.  Christmas is even worse.  All I want to do on Christmas Eve is go to bed, instead, I'm usually guarding the hallway while Don puts the presents under the tree. Presents that I purchase, he has yet to purchase any gifts for the boys in 8 years for any holiday. Seriously. In his words, "you enjoy it so much, I don't want to take that away from you."
Space is an issue too. Living in a older home, where people didn't need large closets because they must have only had 2 outfits and 1 pair of shoes, its hard to hide presents for 4 curious boys. I was a kid once too, and I fondly remember believing in Santa, the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny, but I also remember finding out they were fictional and my little world came crashing down. Just like with any tragedy, I remember exactly where I was when my mom told me and I literally sobbed. I felt lied to, which if you think about it, I was!  Don said he didn't think it was a big deal when he found out.  I was 9, that means I have about one year before the boys get wise to the idea.
Just yesterday in the car I almost just blurted it out because they were telling each other that the Easter bunny was going to bring them DSi games...which he isnt.
Plus, what is it teaching them? That what we can't afford, Santa and his elves just pull it out of their butts?
So in a very round about way, I have been stressing about it and sneaking into my closet and eating all the Easter candy. This is just on the heels of the Birthday extravaganza which is April. Five ice cream cakes in one weekend. My mom keeps Dairy Queen in business with these cakes. And I can only guess that this Easter she will have a Happy re-birthday Jesus cake.
Now I'm faced with the dilemma to either tell the boys the truth or let them discover it themselves. Either way, it will be a sign of growing up and will no doubt trickle down the family gossip mill and spoil it for all of them (except) Oscar.  All I know is if it does continue, I can only imagine what I will say to myself in the mirror when summer rolls around.

Blue Skies- for Kate.

My friend recently had a baby and bravely shared with me that it wasn't exactly what she had expected, not the birth itself, the time at home when the visitors taper off, your husband goes back to work and you are alone.. In a time when I communicate virtually with friends I was a little shocked to receive a phone call. I just listened, because that is why she called, she needed a human ear. I told her I was here for her and hoped that helped.  I didn't have time to explain the following:
In 2003 I had my first son. It was great, everybody was happy, but when I got home I had a fear that I was going to drop him.  Kind of typical really, but my mind didn't just stop there. I would wake up and play the scenario over and over again but in graphic detail. I shared this with a (former) friend who also had a new baby and she told me that I was weird.  I never mentioned it to my doctor because I figured I was alone and that it was a fleeting thought..It wasn't.
In 2004 I had my second son. He was a c-section because he was big and breech. I was not prepared in the least bit for the pain of recovery. Clueless really. Until I sneezed.
The following 6 months were by far the darkest days of my existence. It was a slow progressive plunge into a place that I didn't think my subconscious could take me.   I don't share this with many people because of the fear that I will be labeled insane or registered as the neighborhood nut, but if this helps my friend, I will risk that. I started to have visions of horrific things happening to my baby, mostly at my expense. For example, a stranger coming into the house and repeatedly slamming him into the wall.  Putting him in the microwave. Dropping him on his head.  I would think these thoughts in great detail and immediately feel tremendous guilt. I had my hair cut 10 inches and died it dark brown, trying to look the part of what I thought a stay at home mom looked like, the  job I had decided to take on. My husband got a glimpse of my inner turmoil one night when we had an argument. He had gone out with some friends and I had thought he would be home sooner. The baby was crying most of the time he was gone and I was slowly loosing my mind. By the time he arrived home I was beyond angry and verbally attacked him. Naturally he was defensive and the verbal sparring began. That was until I picked up the baby and was poised to throw him up against the wall, and I wasn't just threatening, I was just about to do it.  What happened next will haunt me for ages. I saw fear in Don's eyes. He slowly approached me and took the baby. I was horrified that I had let out what was going on in my head, and that I allowed myself to get that close to the edge.  I left. It was 11:00 at night and I ran. Literally ran, I don't remember how far, but I know it surely wasn't recommended by my doctor.  I feared going back home. What did he think of me? I begged him to never tell our son what I had said or felt for fear he may feel unwanted. The reason I'm referring to him as a baby and not by name is because I hadn't gotten to know him yet and at this time, he was just a baby.  Don didn't go to work the next day. I started to realize that I was never alone with the boys. When he left, my mom appeared and vice versa.  Later a found out it was a covert operation, I wasn't trusted with myself, or more specifically with the baby, and that hurt.  I called the doctor and Don and I went together. Basically, my doctor put me on medication pronto, and reassured my husband that I was not going to drown the boys in a bathtub or drive them into a river. He candidly told Don , "your wife has postpartum anxiety..not postpartum psychosis."  Not only did I take a heavy anti-anxiety medication, I also had to see a therapist every week, until I stopped going when she instructed me to wear crystals and ask my angels to protect me...yes, maybe she was the one who needed meds. Once I was on this medication my head cleared and I was now left with the heavy guilt for thinking those thoughts. What I didn't realize is that hormones are a powerful thing and not easily, if at all, controlled. I believe that the c-section didn't allow my body to recognize that I was having a baby. I never went into labor and abruptly the baby was surgically removed. Kind of traumatic for all parties involved.  How could I not go a little crazy? The scary thing is, that nobody would have known had we not had that argument. I took pictures, posed with the baby and sent out birth announcements. Don knew I wasn't acting like myself, but decided it was due to exhaustion. I realized that the combination of having 2 kids 17 months apart, having him in October when the sun no longer shines and signing away my life as a career woman basically felt like a death wish and was too overwhelming. I also felt that I had failed... miserably. Thankfully, even after 6 months, my office took me back and things returned to normal.

I had my third son in 2007. It was in July and to my surprise, even after a c-section, all went well. I can tell you that my family was on high alert. My mom making surprise Starbucks deliveries. My dad would just be in the neighborhood.  My brother called me daily asking how I was. My sister tip toeing around. (She has 5 kids and never experienced this.)  My mom did however,  and never spoke of it until now. Her doctor treated the problem with Valium as they did for several other things back then, like alcoholism, restless leg syndrome, you could deal with the addiction later.
All was well, and this postpartum was medication free.  I experienced two miscarriages one in 2008 and a second in 2009 and as traumatic as those were, I mourned,  tried to not blame myself or think that karma was paying me back and I looked forward.
In 2010 I had my last son.  I was doing fine until the actual c-section. I had a panic attack during surgery that lasted into recovery and by the time I could verbalize what was going on, I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. I say panic attack, but it was far worse. I suddenly decided on the operating table to choose flight instead of fight. I wanted to leave and leave now, but when  I went to move my legs or arms and I couldn't. I was verbally and physically paralyzed. All I could communicate was "I'm not ok"  and the surgery went on. That day there was a resident and I was able to hear a play by play of what was going on. I tried to sing in my head to muffle their voices. Don stayed in the hospital as my parents took care of the boys. The following night my mind gave me a glimpse of what I had feared....again. I didn't want to admit it, I had done so well last time. I didn't tell Don, but I didn't want him to go.  He explained that he didn't like sleeping on a sofa with a bar up his butt and needed to sleep in a bed.  Despite me asking (pleading) with him to stay he left at 11 and said he would be back at 7 am with a latte and a bagel (a birth tradition).  Around 11 they brought the baby in so I could feed him. When I was finished feeding him I called the nurse and asked her to come and get him to take him back the nursery. I just was scared, and didn't want to let my mind go to that place... but it did.  I panicked. I called Don told him I couldn't do this. I looked at the baby in the little clear bassinet and horrific thoughts came rushing to my head.  Where was the nurse? What was taking so long? I literally locked myself in the bathroom until I heard them come in.  Tears are running down my face,  I explained that I needed to see a doctor.. she asked if I was in pain, I said yes, but not physically. They told me that the soonest one would be in would be in the morning. I paced back and forth. She took the baby and Don walked in. Again, with fear on his face, he has never shared why. I was thankful that the nurse took him to the nursery for the night.  I asked Don to never ask me what was going on in my head, and to forgive me. I also thanked him for being there. That night was a long one. In the morning a doctor arrived. Don was in the room when he asked me to tell him what thoughts I was having. I figured if Don had been with me despite my flawed maternal issues, he wasn't going to leave now. My recollection to this conversation was that tears were streaming down my face as I told him that I thought of doing some horrible things to our newborn.  Don said that my account was chilling because I spoke plainly and calmly about how I wanted to hurt our baby. I think he saw a side of me and it freaked him out.  I felt exposed.  Not again I thought. As my doctor was writing out an Rx faster than the speed of light, he said something to me that got me through the first 3 months. He said, allow those thoughts to come into your mind, acknowledge them, and dismiss them, find comfort in knowing that you have a pure conscious and that you would never harm your baby. 
He also took Don in the hall and said something, maybe gave him an emergency strait jacket or an emergency barbiturate for all I know. Perhaps it was the combination of the drugs and the fact that my doctor didn't look at me like I was crazy, but I can confidently say I came out ahead. I found comfort in neighbors, family and friends bringing dinner over and socializing, even if it was brief and they didn’t have a clue what I was going through. I write this for my friend. Although you may be feeling overwhelmed, scared, disappointed, guilty, know that you are a good mom, you will overcome this and I have confidence in your pure conscious that you will climb out of this dark place. Don't define yourself by a stereotypical mom that only exist on the Cosby Show or assume that other young moms have it all together...  up until now, you thought I did.  For whatever reason, the song that ran repeatedly through my head was Blue Skies by none other than Willie Nelson. The lyrics were the polar opposite of what I was feeling during that time, but somehow although I had felt my subconscious had betrayed me, it also dug this out of the same subconscious and this song got me through.

Pour some sugar on me.

The sound of Fox News on a continual loop blaring bias propaganda throughout my house can only mean one thing....my in-laws are in town! They made the bi- annual trip up from Florida to visit. This occasion was Oscar's first birthday. My birthday was completely forgotten by my mother in law and I knew it had slipped her mind by the horrified expression on her face when Don wished me a happy birthday in the morning..
When they are in town my husband seems to revert back to a 12-year-old boy.  One particular incident was when I was changing a code brown diaper as Oscar was trying to twist his way off the table, when I realized that we (he) had used the last diaper and not replenished them.  As I called to him in desperation holding a baby down with my torso, he did not answer. I can hear him in the other room. Then I realized that when his father is talking, mostly about his dislike of the current state of the government, my husband is at complete attention and nothing can penetrate his ear. As I struggled to keep from getting peed on, I managed to get a diaper.  In Don's defense, his dad has an authoritative presence, probably because he was a career military colonel. So in my stupidity, I thought I could break Don's trance..  His dad doesn't intimidate me, his hair on the other hand...
My mother in law is a sweet little woman who keeps tissues up her sleeve and was raised in Massachusetts.. Because she is from Boston, she has a very thick accent that makes in impossible for her to say two of our son's names correctly. Parker is Pakah and Oscar is Oscah.  I guess those accents stay with you forever. 
The last visit she came down with a stomach "bug", this was 4 weeks after I had a baby, had a sick 6 yr old and the weather was horrible. I have tried to block that out of my mind. We bought some
Pepto-Bismol and ever since Jack associates that with Grammie.  This time Pop pop came down with a similar stomach "bug".  Apparently onions wreck havoc on his stomach. That is why I didn't mention that I may or may not have added onion powder to hamburgers I made the previous night..  Regardless, I lawfully love them and they adore the boys. So much so that they are able to find traits of themselves or their parents in each and every one of them.  Finegan has her father's music ability, Jack has Pop pops determination (at 3).  Do I dare mention that they may be individuals with their very own traits?
Rubbish!
Previous to them scheduling their visit, a friend of mine had purchased tickets to a Bret Michaels concert.  I have a little bit of a fetish with Bret Michaels. Granted, it was their last night in town, but hey, I didn't schedule the Bret Michaels Band tour schedule. I did find it reasurring that, they ordered pizza, (naturally, I was gone.)
I met my friend at a restaurant and she had brought along other Bret die hards, the only difference is, is that they loved him in Poison and my fascination began with the Rock of Love (a vh1 original reality show, which by the way was their top rated show of all time). I was pregnant and watched it from beginning to end. Maybe it was the moose tracks ice cream that I ate when watching it, or the raging hormones of pregnancy, but Bret poured his sugar on me. Apparently this feeling is also shared by several other Midwestern women. In fact, an entire smorgasbord of them. I thought that arriving in a minivan to a "rock concert" was cramping my style, but that couldn't touch the faux pas I witnessed . The person who runs the airbrush t-shirt shop must have been very busy that week. We were packed in a nightclub, which temperature must have reached 95 degrees. I was ok with this because of the massive amount of chips and salsa I had consumed. In fact, in the 4 hours I was there, I didn't need to use the bathroom once, (thanks to my sodium intake) which may be a record for me.  The minority of fan's there were in their 20's and the majority were in the 45+ range. That didn't stop them from dressing like they did when they were in their 20's.  We had vintage Bret shirts, Tiny tops,  Bret tattoos (the real kind), cowboy hats with mom jeans, and of course, bandannas.  Apparently I didn't get the memo but Bret must be a boob man.  I came to this conclusion after the copious amount of breasts I saw there. I haven't seen that many naked boobs since I was in a high school locker room, and at least then there was some modestly. Quite the opposite here. Women flashing him, as if he was going to throw beads at them.  Hopefully after the show they can retrieve the bras and underwear they threw at him.  I considered joining the bandwagon but didn't think a  smart nude Bali support bra would be as titillating as a red one, plus I paid a lot of money and its just right fit.
By the time he arrived on stage (2 hours after his scheduled time, thanks to a surprise opening "band") he was very professional, well as professional as a rock musician can be. He said it was his 12th show in 12 days, and he put on quite a performance and left us hungry for more. Except for the fact that I left early...I have lunches to pack, uniforms to iron (ok, lay out) and for the love of God..SLEEP!
 Gone are my old Lollapalooza and Indigo Girl (yes Indigo girls) days, I have matured, but so have concerts.  Back in my day, video recording was discouraged (probably because of the weight of the camera) Today its encourages with cell phones, and as a result, I think it forces performers to bring their A game. There is no better promotion that viral YouTube video.
Part of my job requires me to attend several recitals and concerts but if its possible, it appeared that Bret Michaels was less of a Liberace then most of the performers I encounter. I did not see him wearing a scarf to protect his instrument or downing herbal tea. As he was singing Talk dirty to me, I couldn't help but think of the band members wives, or kids and how they must miss them, and how trust must be a major issue. He is just a guy, but these girls would have done just about anything to ride his tour bus.  I feel compelled to write a thank you note, but even I know how lame that is.
I returned home to find my in-laws waiting and anxious to hear how my "rock concert" went.  I'm glad I was able to add a little bit of outlaw flavor to my mommy white bread persona. I needed a few out-laws to counter balance the in-laws.

Romance redefined

This week is spring break for local schools. This means that I leave my husband and boys home while I go to work.  I fear that I could get used to this and could propose to Don that this become his permanent occupation, knowing very well that he would decline.  It is nice to wake up and only worry about myself, no packing lunches, no forcing children into uniforms, no poop under my fingernails and no listening to the Backyardigan's in the car.  I can actually look like I put makeup on. I went home for lunch and as I opened the already unlocked door to our house I was greeted by no one, not even the dog.  I heard the babies crib aquarium playing music. In the distance I could hear Jack upstairs singing, and in the basement I heard an uproar of laughter.  If this was a crime scene it would have been a slam dunk case for the detective. Breakfast? Cereal and juice. Lunch? Hotdogs with ketchup and mustard.  They must be dressed because there are pajamas scattered across the room.  The baby has had two bottles and half a jar of bananas.   Don emerged from the basement and I could tell by the redness of his eyes and what appeared to be a dip in his IQ that he too was playing Play Station 3. He seemed surprised to see me.  Usually when he is at home and I'm at work he prefers to receive a call to let him know I'm on my way. That gives him about 15 min. to clean the house before I walk in. This time he didn't have that warning.  I reminded him that I could have been a kidnapper or a dingo and just walked into the house and stolen our baby.  *I have been known to be a bit OCD about locking the doors, I can't count the number of times I have locked  Don out of the house when he took the trash out.  It is a must keep the kids on lock down at all times.
But to give him credit, everyone was content and happy.
As we approach our 10th year of marriage I have realized that romance has been redefined.  I have never been one for candle light dinners or carpet picnics by a fire.  But when I was younger I felt that romance involved reservations, a new outfit and roses.
This past weekend we celebrated my birthday.  My birthday is this week, but it is the day before our sons first birthday. I know now that my birthday will forever be an Oscar-eve. And I'm ok with that. In fact,  I was just commenting on how 33 was going to be a good year, only to have Don remind me that it WAS a good year and that I will actually be 34. Wow an entire year gone without my knowledge.  His parents are coming for their bi-annual visit at the extended stay, also known as our house. So he took this weekend as our last chance to celebrate. He arranged a babysitter ( romantic gesture number 1) and cleaned the house. I don't know why we feel the need to clean up for a babysitter, I guess we want to appear to live an immaculate lifestyle, but I don't think we are fooling anyone.
He had worked out all the logistics in order for us to have date ( romantic gesture number 2) He wouldn't tell me where, which later I realized that the only plan he had was to throw out suggestions and look at my expression to see if I thought they were good ones.   Like, "I thought we would go to _________ " (wait for my sour expression) " but then I realized you wouldn't want that and that maybe you would rather go to _______" 
(wait for my neutral expression) " but decided that  I know you would rather we go to _________" (giving me the side eye to see if I approved) once he got the notion of success, he confidently announced that we were going to a local Irish Pub to have beer and listen to a band.  But first, I let him know that I was obligated to go to my bosses house where all my colleagues would be present. He agreed. He even socialized appropriately.
(Romantic gesture number 3) He also was able to politely excuse us early (romantic gesture number 4) something I have a hard time doing and almost always wimp out or just try and leave out the back door.   As we cruised along in the minivan. I looked at my husband, the father of my children. I encourage everyone to just do this, not my husband, but your own significant other.  It sounds simple, but I was surprised that I hadn't actually taken a good long look at him in some time.  Other than his side burns being completely gray, he pretty much looks the same to me. I may be bias, but he really is a good looking guy. I wonder if this is how old people look at each other when they have been married for 70 years?  If you can look past the wrinkles, age spots, and goiters, and just see who you fell in love with in their 20's.
I remembered just earlier that day as I passed the nursery as he was changing one of Oscar's explosive diapers with ease and even whistled while he did it.  I also thought about how he passed a football with Parker and Fin and attacked Jack with a tickle spider. Just the flow our our house that day was romantic in its own right.  When we arrived at the pub he ordered a pale ale for me and although we couldn't hear each other, we were able to communicate with expression.  When I did go to the bathroom, I noticed him checking out my butt (Romantic gesture number 5) and realized that even after witnessing it expanding and contracting with each baby, I can still turn his head.  But even more importantly  was a simple comment that I made about his extremely effeminate glass holding his beer that made him laugh gutturally, humor is one thing that will never fade, the ability to laugh at ourselves or our situation. I hope that as I get older, I will only get funnier,  and I hope that he will still laugh, even if its at his own expense. Getting each other. THAT is romance redefined.