A Good Reason to do Something Nice for My Mr. Right

Somewhere I heard that the best gift I could give my children is a good marriage. Having been one of the lucky kids whose parents stayed together happily, I think that's true. There is a great sense of safety and security in a home led by happy parents. And I learned a lot about how to be married just by watching them. I hope that Mr. Wicke and I are passing that along to our children.

Judging from my conversation with Logan yesterday, I think I can at least say, "So far so good," and I'll take that.

For whatever reason, yesterday Logan said something or other about people loving each other. I, who can never pass up the opportunity to pick their little brains and see what falls out of their mouths questioned, "Yeah? Who loves each other in this house?"

"You and Daddy."

"You think so, huh? How do you know? How do you know that we love each other?"

"Because I've seen you."

"What d'ya mean, 'You've seen us?' You've seen us what?"

"I've seen you kissing."

"Well, that's true. We do kiss. But how else? How else do you know we love each other?"

"Well...you like to talk to each other."

"Ooh, good one. Yeah. I do like to talk to your dad. Can you think of anything else?"

"Umm...You compliment each other."

"Wow! That's a big one! Good for you. I guess you do know what love looks like, after all."

By now Mr. Wicke had walked into the room. He couldn't help but add, "So a long time from now, when you get to pick somebody to marry, what kind of person is that going to be?"

And here's the answer that made me scream a silent hallelujah: She said, "Somebody nice like you."

Amen! Amen! Amen! Gosh, it's enough to make me want to go out and do something nice for Mr. Wicke right now just so our kids can see it. In fact, I think I will.

Blank

I am tired. How can I tell? My beds have not been made this week. My friend asked how I was doing and I burst into tears. I have not blogged. I have not read. I have asked my children to fetch a lot of things. The Schwan's man not only brought in the items I bought but also put them in the freezer while I remained on the couch. (And I didn't even care that I have no pride.) But it's the pictures--the pictures, people--that really tell the story.

Over the last couple of weeks I have been editing and filing the pictures we have taken over the last few months. It's not pretty. And I don't even care about the body. I expected the big belly. I never had a flat belly anyway. In fact, this is probably the firmest my stomach has ever been or ever will be for that matter. No. It is all in the eyes.

In every photo within the last five months it looks like someone has stolen my soul--or given me a lot of Valium. Take your pick. The smile is there, big enough to make sure that my "smile lines" are loud and clear, but the eyes? Blank. I've usually got both arms around my kids, but the eyes? Blank. It's the same in every photo.

It's like someone's posing a cardboard cutout of me at various events. Me on Christmas morning: Blank. Me at the zoo: Blank. Me sledding with the kids: Blank. (And don't think for a minute that I'm going to be posting any of the pictures that I'm talking about. I come from a long line of vain women, after all. No, they will stay unpublished where they belong.)

But here's the real tragedy. I don't feel blank. I'm loving this time of my life, despite all the groaning I do about my troll feet (and they are really ugly) but even still, I am truly enjoying the journey, so why don't my eyes tell the story?

The truth is, no matter my other physical shortcomings, somehow I possessed a certain inner vivacity that saved me. I was never the model type. I was the short, "full-figured" gal that was tons of fun. I can't do blank! I don't even recognize that person. And here's the question that puts fear into my heart: Is that blank lady here to stay? Will the Shwan's man always have to put my food in the freezer?

Bottom line: I want one good picture of me pregnant. Just one. One that reflects at least a glimmer of the joy that I feel in my heart. Just so that this sweet boy knows how happy his mom was to shelter him for a while. I don't think that's too much to ask.

Does anyone know a good photographer? I'm afraid I may need a lot of help.

Mr. Wicke: Exposed part II

11. What is your favorite thing to do as a couple? Honestly, doing anything with him is better. But special stuff? Probably traveling. He's a perfect traveling companion for me. We love seeing new things, but neither of us likes things too scheduled. And apparently house renovations, since this is our fourth endeavor together. The other thing that comes to mind is really simple, but so integral to our relationship. When we met, we would spend hours just talking, sharing ideas and personal philosophies, and analyzing human nature, society, and our place in it. I find his brain really sexy. Still do. And we still talk about all that stuff.


12. Do you have children? 2 and one on the way. A girl, Logan, who is 7; a boy, Griffin, who is 5; and a boy in the tummy we are planning to call Lincoln. They really are our miracles. We spent almost 10 years together before we were able to start our family, so we were really, really ready to take on the adventure of parenthood.


13. Does he have hidden talents? He's super handy. Well, now he's super handy. Since we've fixed up four houses together, he's learned to do a lot of stuff around the house: drywall, plastering, laying floors, installing electrical, minor plumbing, and general handyman stuff. I'm always amazed at what he is able to learn and accomplish.


14. How old is he? 38. But he has the body of a 29 year old. :0)


15. Who said I love you first? I don't remember. Isn't that weird? I'll have to ask him if he does. But I do remember the first time he almost said it. It was really, really early on in our dating relationship, and I was dropping him off for a class. I pulled up to the curb and as he gathered his books and whatnot and hopped out he said, "Thanks. I lo--I'll see you later?" I remember my head spinning in his direction, that moment of "What was he going to say?!" He was smiling, laughing at himself. We both ignored it, but I thought about it all the way home, smiling. I knew. I knew he loved me.


16. His favorite music? Something weird and techno. Or something totally old school like Motown. Or even older school like big band. Or something Australian played on the didgeridoo. I'm not kidding. His taste is the most eclectic I've ever seen. But it rarely includes anything you would hear on top 40.


17. What do you admire most about him? The list is too long. He's the best man I know. But I'll tell you why I married him, and although my brother thinks this is the worst thing to say to a man, it's the truth: I married him because he makes me feel safe. He was the first man, besides my father, that I completely trusted. I trusted his word; I trusted his action. He was, and is, a stand up guy. He'll always do the right thing, and he will always take care of us.


18. What is his favorite color? I don't think he really has a favorite. If he had to say one, it would probably be something peaceful like blue.


19. Will he read this? Yes. I already told him I wrote all about him, and I won't let it rest until he tells me if I got some of the answers right.

20. Who do you tag? Anyone who wants to play. Consider yourself tagged.

Mr. Wicke: Exposed

My niece, Shana, tagged me awhile back. Here's the low down on Mr. Wicke.

1. Where did you meet your husband? At an opening social at the LDS Institute at the University of Wyoming. I ended up sitting by him while playing Uno. Yes. Very romantic.


2. How long did you date? Not long at all. As they say in When Harry Met Sally: "I knew. I knew like you know about a good melon." But it's true. I just knew. The first night I met him, I was like, "This could be the guy." So we dated two months before he proposed, and we were married 6 months later. Whirlwind style.


3. How long have you been married? It will be 16 years on April 10. Holy cow!


4. What does he do that surprises you? He's great with surprises. He has surprised me with gifts, trips, massages, little getaways, flowers for no reason at all. I have to admit, he is very, very romantic and incredibly thoughtful. But he's also quite a prankster. He loves practical jokes. I have fallen victim to many of those suprises as well.


5. What is your favorite feature of his? Well, I'm torn. It's got to be either his very kind eyes or his bulging muscles. I'll tell you what. I'll take both. Gladly.


6. What is his best quality? His kindness. It's what I first noticed about him. He is a gentle spirit. And his work ethic. The guy just doesn't quit.


7. Does he have a nick name for you? Probably sweetheart. Once when we hit a patch of ice late at night in Wyoming and did a couple of 360's off of the road, I woke to hear him yelling, "Swwweeeetheeeaaaarrt!" Now me? I would have cursed, but I don't have his gentle spirit.


8. What is his favorite food? Ice cream. Seriously, he has a problem. We have probably 6 half gallons in the freezer at one time, and I never buy it. Never. But now, unfortunately, I eat it.


9. What is his favorite sport? Wrestling or football. He loves both. But really? Professional wrestling doesn't do the sport justice so it's not like he can follow it. But we do watch a lot of football together during the season. His Vikings always break his heart. Poor guy.


10.When and where was your first kiss? In my apartment very late one night after we had watched movies. I think it happened before our first "official" date. Hey, like I said, I just knew, and I had to trap him somehow!

To be continued...

Gluttony and Sloth

They say confession is good for the soul. Well, here goes:

On Saturday I probably ate 12 mini candybars. I didn't keep count, but it's got to be close. When I told my friend about it she tried to be kind and said, "Well...they're tiny."

I, having no false illusions about the occurance, responded, "That is like FOUR regular candybars! Who eats four regular candybars in ONE day?!"

And if I'm going to be completely honest, I should add that I also ate a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge that night.

And maybe I should also mention that I laid on the couch all day in my jammies and watched 4 movies.

So now that I've put that out there for the world to see, I should feel better, right? I'm waiting....Nope. Still kind of embarrassing.

In the Wee Small Hours

There is a dirty word that, until now, I have been unfamiliar with. Sadly, my innocence has been shattered. I am now all too familiar with...

...INSOMNIA

There it is in all its nastiness. It even looks ugly, doesn't it? Like a word you want to cross the street to avoid?

These last few weeks, for some inexplicable reason--or perhaps not too inexplicable as my bladder has shrunk to the size of a walnut--I have been finding myself wide awake in the middle of the night. I toss and turn and try to sleep but to no avail. The minutes on the clock turn to hours, and the panic rises knowing how useless I will be in the morning.

So now I have given up lying there counting sheep. Generally I will wander downstairs to the kitchen with a book and pour myself a tall, cold glass of milk to enjoy with a side of toast and homemade strawberry jam, all of which I find terribly comforting, and I'll read myself back to sleep.

It doesn't sound all that bad, and I suppose it wouldn't be if I could sleep the day away, but I have a daytime life that does not gel with these nocturnal activities. My body generally insists on a solid eight hour deep sleep. The kind of sleep that has taught my two children to wake their father in the middle of the night, as he is much more responsive. The kind of sleep that feels more like a coma than a nap. The kind of sleep where even dreams don't interfere.

I used to sleep like that, and I could do it almost on cue. When I put my mind to it, I could be asleep in two minutes--pretty much anywhere.

Oh, I miss that girl. I miss her so badly that even homemade strawberry jam can't silence the ache for her. I hope she comes back. Someday. And I hope she brings her regular-sized ankles with her.

Sigmund Need Not Analyze. I Got This One Figured.

I had a weird dream. And because no one can ever successfully communicate the absolute weirdness of their dreams, I will not go into great detail.

Here's a paraphrase: It had to do with giving birth--something I have never done before, but about which I know enough to know that the following does not make any sense. But, then again, dreams rarely do. (Like the reoccurring dream I had a few years ago where I was a chain-smoking fool, and loving it by the way. It happened so often it started weirding me out. Anyway...)

So in my current freaky dream, my water breaks while on location at the hospital; however, I'm not at the hospital when it happens. I know. Doesn't make sense. I told you. When I arrive the doctor is all upset, and up on the table I go for examination where they find some sort of viral/fungal growth in my womb that looks ridiculously like air puffed Cheetos. The doc says the baby has to come out NOW! The next word I hear is episiotomy and they reach for...(wait for it)...A CIRCULAR SAW WITH LIKE A QUARTER INCH BLADE!!!

Can you say subconscious fear of birthing? Don't bother getting up Mr. Freud. I get it already. But I could use some feedback on that chain-smoking dream, if you don't mind.

Hello, Snow. Nice to meet you.

Over the vacation we drove six hours round trip to do this:











What I learned? I don't miss snow. It's fun to visit, but I'd rather shovel sunshine any day. My kids on the other hand wish that it "snowed in our swimming pool." Go figure.