Smiling Mom

(fyi, Hubby said I could post about this ‘sen­si­tive’ topic. Thank good­ness because it makes for fan­tas­tic fodder!)

So ya.

Today was Hubby’s “Big Day”.

It was a day 6 months in the making.

After jum­ping through hoops, atten­ding clas­ses, and wai­ting to be sche­du­led, today was his vasectomy.

Let me jump back just a little bit to the con­ver­sa­tion Hubby and I had yesterday.

OK it was not so much a con­ver­sa­tion, but more a mono­lo­gue direc­ted at me as I sat on the couch with my mouth agape.

Hubby: So, I’ve been thin­king. Our kids are so great. They are won­der­ful. Let’s have one more! If we have one more now then we can still retire on sche­dule, when we are in our early fif­ties. We have such a great family, let’s add to it!

And on it went for about two minu­tes, while I sat there, mouth wide open.

con­ti­nued Hubby: Actually no. NO. I don’t want any more kids. Our family is great. Really great. Plus with two kids we can attend all their sports events. With three, there will always be one who is left out. NO. We are not going to have any more kids. I’m going to have my vasec­tomy tomorrow.

Blink, Blink.

Smi­ling Mom: So… do you think maybe we should can­cel the appoint­ment for tomorrow?

Hubby: Why? I’ve deci­ded. No more kids.

SM: Well, being that you are even having this con­ver­sa­tion with me, sug­gest that there is an ele­ment of uncertainty.

Hubby: Please, ever­yone has cold feet before big events, like wed­dings. I’m just having cold feet. It’s a big pro­ce­dure. I’m nervous.

SM: Um, Hubby, did you have cold feet before our wedding.

Hubby: Well, no, but that’s not the point. I’m going through with the appointment.

SM: We’re young, we could easily post­pone ‘the pro­ce­dure’ for a few years. It’s no problem!!

Hubby: NO. I’m having the pro­ce­dure done. I’m get­ting a vasec­tomy tomorrow.…End of story.

Ah, but it’s not the end of my story!

Stay tuned for my next post, The Vasec­tomy That Wasn’t Meant to Be (Part 2)

So today is my dad’s birthday.

57.

Yikes.

He’s gray now, and bla­mes my tee­nage years for this sud­den onset gray­ness that somehow hap­pe­ned right about the same time I got my first boy­friend and went off to college.

Wha­te­ver, it couldn’t have pos­sibly been all my fault!

I was an angel.

Per­fect.

Ahem.

My dad doesn’t have a sense of humor, at all!

(My dad, gues­sing eClaire’s gender)

Well, maybe a little bit.

He’s a fan­tas­tic photographer.

(eClaire in the same dress my mom and I wore at the same age)

(BC on his second birthday)

(A pic­ture of me last Christmas)

(Uncle J with the kids)

My dad is about the best grandpa a kid could have. He takes time every sin­gle day to talk with my kids. He video con­fe­ren­ces with them through our com­pu­ters and watches as they dance around the house in their goofy ways.

I can mail one of BC’s scrib­ble dra­wings down to San Diego and and my dad treats it like it’s the best art­work he’s ever seen.

He’s everything you could ever hope for in a grandpa.

My kids love him more than just about anything in the world!

My dad often says that I’m quite stub­born. That I’m a bit pig hea­ded and quite strong-willed.

Need­less to say, we weren’t all that close throughout my tee­nage years.

Funny because I get these stubborn-like traits from my dad. Every. sin­gle. one. of. them.

It’s true.

You would think that he would have ‘got’ me a bit bet­ter than he did when I was a teen.

But now that I’m an adult he fre­quently tells sto­ries, to anyone who will lis­ten, about those days. He tells about how I crea­ted a power-point pre­sen­ta­tion of sorts when I was 12 (with a flip chart et. al) and lots of pic­tu­res and dia­grams and direc­tions on how to pro­perly wash a dish. Then I called a mee­ting and pre­sen­ted it to the family.

Or about the time I ran over lightly tap­ped the neigh­borhood boy’s butt with my Toyota truck when I was 16 because he stuck it out at me in the middle of our cul­de­sac and wouldn’t move.

And dare I say, that I usually detect a hit of pride in his voice as he tells each story?

I eat it up! My dad is almost per­fect in my eyes and he has a huge impact on the way I choose to live my life.

He is a great man.

I guess I feel as lucky, if not more, than my kids. My dad loves me more than anything in the world. Until recently I never really unders­tood this type of love. And then Hubby and I had our own daughter.

Now Hubby’s eyes light up and heart melts with just a bat of eClaire’s eyes.

It’s only now that I rea­lize I had, and will always have, the same effect on my dad too.

This is something I will never take for granted.

A dad’s love.

How lucky am I?

Happy Birth­day Dad!

57 and still kickin’

Not Bad!! You may make it to a ripe old age yet!!

I think we did it right. We were friends first, like best of friends, for more than a year before we ever star­ted dating. We knew everything about each other. Too much, if you ask me. But we were armed with infor­ma­tion and a deep res­pect for each other before ever begin­ning our relationship.

The first time you told me you loved me we were still friends. I was up visi­ting you from out of town and we were just han­ging out having a, like, four hour con­ver­sa­tion. It was dark and we were laying beside each other. There was a pause in the con­ver­sa­tion. Your arm was under my head and my head on your shoul­der. (Just friends, right!)

You said, “Don’t say anything, OK?”

I obli­ged

You said, “I love you.”

I obli­ged, saying nothing. But my heart defied my mouth as it beat out of my chest.

What was hap­pe­ning? I could not unders­tand this fee­ling. Deep res­pect? No. Friendship? No.

Love, deep, deep love. Yes.

I obli­ged, and didn’t say anything. Neither did you. I grab­bed your other arm and wrap­ped it around my sto­mach. We sta­yed there spoo­ning for what see­med like fore­ver, in silence. Fee­ling the moment. The emo­tion in the room-it was palpable.

Finally, brea­king the silence, I said, “I love you too.”

Friends. Right. That moment chan­ged everything. What was just a friendship took a dee­per change, one that I never saw coming. Ever­yone else did, but I didn’t.

Later you men­tio­ned that you were so afraid after telling me you loved me, because of the silence. Little did you know how much I felt the love from you and how much I was willing to reci­pro­cate it.

Little did you know!

And little did I know that the love I felt was just the tip of the iceberg.

Do you know what I like the most about you? The way you look at me. You know the look, the one that cuts through me like a hot knife through butter.

You drive me crazy, infu­riate me, make my knees wobbly, make me feel safe, yet off balance. But most of all you make me feel like I am in route to achie­ving my pur­pose here in life.

I want to be the best part­ner I pos­sibly can be to you. I bitch, cry, moan, and nag.  Des­pite my short­co­mings you should know I am proud to be the woman stan­ding next to you, all the time.

One dog, two chil­dren, three tat­toos, four (of your) eye­brow hairs always out of place, and five years of marriage.

Happy 5^th anni­ver­sary, here’s to 60 more!

What is it about daugh­ters and their dads? Dad walks in and his daugh­ter goes crazy! God truly gave something spe­cial to Dads when he crea­ted them.

Hubby was able to join us at swim­ming les­sons today, the first time this ses­sion. eClaire, who is usually very quiet in new and uncom­for­ta­ble situa­tions, was about as vocal as I’ve ever seen her! eClaire LOVES the water, and always has. But there is something she loves more, her Daddy. So put those two things together and you get an inc­re­dibly joy­ful little girl. Our swim ins­truc­tor, Joey, just kept laughing. He couldn’t believe the trans­for­ma­tion in eClaire today. She shrie­ked, laughed, boun­ced, and swam for about 50 minu­tes, baf­fling all of us. Just thin­king back on it makes me smile.

There’s just something about Dad­dies… I know mine, still to this day, can tell me anything, give me any bit of advice, make any sug­ges­tion, and I take it more seriously than I take anyone else’s thoughts. Dad­dies hold a very spe­cial spot in their daugh­ters hearts. Dad­dies, the­re­fore, have a very big res­pon­si­bi­lity to guard that love with their life.

More pic­tu­res to come…

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