Honey, he's home!

My husband has been at the same job for the last seven years. It paid well, but it didn't treat him well. We had some nostalgic attachments to it because it was where we met, but other than that, we had lost our attachment to the company. As the company grew, it lost it's connection to the employees that it used to treasure. It used to take care of it's people, and now it just, you know, sucks the life out of them, chews them up and spits them out. He was working five days with no true weekend. It was almost an hour away from the house. He worked overtime all the time because it was there, and it significantly bolstered his pay. Not to mention that, without him, no one in the store could find their asses with both hands. He really was keeping it all together.

And then there was a new opportunity. And then he took it. And now he has a big kid job with a 8:00-4:30 schedule and weekends off. Now he is independent and doesn't have to ask permission of his boss. Now he is someone who people go to for help while actually, you know, thanking him for his time. Now he doesn't wear a name tag (that he refused to wear anyway) or a uniform. Now we need to go shopping. 

Now he's home kind of all the time.

Now... shit.

I love my husband. I am also immensely proud of him for getting this new opportunity, and also for being so indispensable to his old job for so long. Don't underestimate that. But he is, like, home all the time now. Sundays used to be my day. I worked 12 hours days in the office Monday through Thursday. Friday I work from home all day. Saturday he and I spend together. But Sunday, Sunday was mine. Sunday was mine to go to the mall, take hour long showers, grocery shop and eat junk food (not in that order). Sunday was when I could sit on the couch all day watching terrible television shows on Netflix and not worry about entertaining anyone other than my overstuffed gullet. 

Oh, Sunday. 

We're adjusting. 

Husband thinks that if we both have time off, it should be spent together. He wants "us" time. I love "us" time, but I really love "me" time. Like, me and I are bestest buddies. We have entire conversations that the rest of the world wouldn't understand. We like television melodrama. We love cheese fries. We like being left alone with each other. We are total loners, but we do it together. 

Again, we're adjusting. 

Remember when I was single and got to be a total effing loner without worrying about anyone else's feelings? When no one cared what I did? Then I decided to get married to this dude who is awesome, but he still exists and it's totes throwing off my groove?

Again, I love my husband, and I wouldn't trade him in for all of the alone Sundays in the world. I'm just, you know, adjusting. 

Sigh. As always, it's hip to be square, kids.

Joyful, Sexy Noise

I'm sitting upstairs in my bedroom watching Conan. All of a sudden, my attention is drawn away from the television to the sexiest noise in the world. 

My husband

…is doing dishes.

Yum. 

It's hip to be square, kids. 

A Letter To My Yet Unconceived Child

Hello you.

I don't know you. I think that's fair because no one knows you. You might be tall and thin like your eventual father's family or short and squat like mine. You could be a wordsmith like me or a mechanical genius like your father. Even yet, there is a chance that you might never exist. 

I can't wait to meet you, but I wonder if waiting might be better. Right now, I think I imagine you to be more of a fashion accessory or a new fancy toy than I do a lifelong obligation that screams and poops. I think of you like a new expensive purse that I would really like to have. The part of me who knows I can have whatever I want says, "NOW DAMNIT!" The part of me who is a reasonable adult says that it may be better to pay off our debt before giving birth to a human money pit. The realistic part of me knows that it's not really up to me. Also, my dear, understand that I don't actually buy expensive purses, and I know you're much more important than that. It was just an analogy. Chill out, baby.

I know that I will love you more than anything ever, but I also love other things. Don't worry, you'll be more important, but I will also try my hardest not to lose myself in your existence. I will probably want to spend every moment of my day with you, but please don't be offended if I really want to do a puzzle or go out with a friend without you. I like me. I like me a lot. And, selfish or otherwise, I worry that when you're here, I won't be anymore. I'll be hidden beneath your needs because I will just want to make you so happy. 

But you will be happy. You will be surrounded by people who love you so much. You will be the first  grandchild for your Mom Mom and Pop Pop. I say this not knowing when your arrival will be, but knowing that the universe would appreciate if my siblings did not reproduce. They could, but probably won't. If they do, it won't be for a while. You'll be grandchild number five for your father's family, but you will be the most spoiled. Not because you're the youngest, but because your father is your Grandma's favorite. He's the only boy out of four children, and he is her baby. Your Grandma will be a bundle of happy tears when she sees you for the first time, and she won't want to let go. She'll have to though, because Mom Mom and Pop Pop, my mommy and daddy, have not had a grandchild of their own yet, and they get dibs. They've already made that clear. I think Grandma will understand. There will also be tons of aunts and uncles (biological and by choice) who aren't going to let you be for a second. You will probably be the best socialized baby in the world. You will almost certainly be that freakishly mature child because there are going to be so many adults wanting your attention. In short, you will be awesome.

You might be bullied, and that's okay. I don't want you to be bullied, but to a certain extent, it's part of growing up. You will probably go to public school because you likely won't remember anything that you learn in the classroom, but you will remember that if you open your mouth to that burly gentleman in the corner, he might pound you into the dust. I will allow you to solve these problems for yourself to a certain extent, and I promise to not go all mama bear on things before it's necessary. I assure you, however, that if it's necessary, I will go mama bear all over that place and they will not see it coming. You will always have a chance to handle it how you see fit. Then, they will see how terrifying 5 foot 2 inches of protectiveness can be. Watch out Class of 2031. I will get you if necessary. 

I hope that you get your dad's way with mechanics and my sense of humor. Don't get me wrong, your dad has a wonderful sense of humor, but mine comes directly from your Pop Pop, and he's my best friend. I hope you are someday as close to one or both of us as I am with him.

I hope I can follow the advice that I give the parents of my patients while learning new things along the way. I hope you see your father and I argue while knowing that what's behind it is real love. I hope you understand that difference between loving each other through confrontation and pretending that everything is fine. 

I hope you like books. I'm going to buy you every book I can get my hands on. I mean real books, by the way, the kind that I read and touched when I was a child, not these electronic versions that don't have the same effect. I hope you get to know the heros of my childhood like Winnie the Pooh and Harold and the Purple Crayon. They're cool dudes. 

I hope you get dirty. I hope you roll in germs. I hope you get snotty and icky and gain the immunities of a champ. Your mommy never gets sick, and I'm pretty sure it's because I practically ate dirt as a child. I hope you let your dad throw you in the pool and horse around with you. I hope you have his sense of adventure. He needs an exploration buddy, and I'm not very good at the spontaneous. 

I hope you aren't allergic to gluten because being allergic to gluten is balls. 

I hope you aren't a twin, though I will be perfectly happy if you are. Multiples run in both sides of my family, and your father is a twin. Please understand that this is utterly frightening. Aside from the "taking care of two booger eaters" thing, there is the whole "getting extra fat" thing. You aren't even a twinkle yet, so I can still be vain. 

I hope that you understand that you can believe whatever you want. Both of your parents came from originally religious (and very different) backgrounds that have been relaxed as we grew up. You can be Buddhist or Jewish or Christian or Pastafarian. You will be exposed to a whole bunch of different things. You make your choice once you're old enough to understand. Also, you can change your mind. We're totes cool with that. 

I hope that at some point in your life, your Aunt Amy (or your Aunt Amy and I) take you to a drag club where she can introduce you to all of the drag queens because she will (for sure) know them all by name. I hope that if you're a boy, you at least think it's funny, and if you're a girl, you think that it's FFFFAAABBBBUUUULLLOUUUSSS. 

You're beautiful. Before you even exist, I know you're beautiful. You're loved. You're already causing tons of anxiety, so you're probably worth all of the trouble. You come from strong, stubborn people. You are bound to be both of these things. 

You are bound to be amazing. 

And, don't worry baby, it is hip to be square. 

Note: This post was inspired by my friend Robin (@FarewellStrangr) and her blog www. farewellstranger.com. Her blog to her son pulled at my heart strings in such a way and showed me that I feel the same way for someone who doens't exist. Her devotion to her son and her sense of humor through it all are a shining light in the world for  how all of this could be for me. I am so terribly excited for the "what ifs".

Find Robin's blog here.