C’mon baby, light my Kindle.

I’ve never been much of a book person.

Granted, over the past 6 years, I’ve read plenty of books.  But most of those have been picture books, board books and, generally, anything impervious to teethmarks or drool.  With a little Tikki Tikki Tembo thrown in there as well.

But the other kind of books?  The ones with actual words targeted at audiences over the age of 8?  I’ve never taken much to.

There are so many other things I want or need to spend my free time doing.  Working on websites.  Playing Words With Friends.  Facebooking or aimlessly surfing the internet.  Important stuff like that.

To my husband, the ex-literature teacher, this is baffling.  There are few things he’d rather do than sit around and bury his nose in a book, or his Kindle.

So when the reading fever struck me earlier this week, I don’t think anyone was more shocked than he.

Or sad to see his Kindle go.  And he knew it would be a while before he got it back.

Because I started reading The Hunger Games trilogy.

If you haven’t started reading the books yet, I highly recommend that you don’t.  Because they are positively addicting.  And that’s not necessarily a good thing.

Housework has been neglected.

We’ve gone out for dinner 3 of the past 4 nights.

I haven’t gone to bed before 1 am since I started reading the books.

I might be just a wee bit obsessed.

But here’s the thing I’ve discovered.  Even if I let everything else slide around the house, there’s still the small matter of those two little munchkins that need me.

Kindergartners aren’t very sympathetic to I’LL-MAKE-YOU-BACON-AFTER-I-FINISH-CHAPTER-10’s.   They want their breakfast now.

Toddlers don’t like it when you say, “I’ll come play with you after I find out who gets picked from District 12.”  Hungry Hippos wait for no one.

And you really don’t earn brownie points with the husband when tell your son, “Go ask Daddy to change your diaper, honey.  Momma needs to see whether Katniss makes it out of this one.”

I’ve discovered that it’s really, really hard to finish a book when you have kids.

The good news for my family is that I’m burning through the books at an alarmingly fast rate.  After a couple days of reading, I’m on number three in the trilogy.

My husband, who’s already read the books, has been humoring me while I satisfy my obsession.

Secretly, I think the ex-professor in him is glad I’m finally reading an actual book.  One that does not have pictures in it.

Or perhaps he knows that, at the rate I’m reading, the end is near.  In another day or so, The Hunger Games will draw to a close.  And he’ll have home-cooked meals, and semi-clean house once again.

And, if he’s lucky, he’ll also get his Kindle back.

10 Days and Counting: The pity party commences

I don’t like it when my husband has to travel for work.

So, when he leaves, I often take the opportunity to throw myself a pity party.

I like to whine about the evenings that seem to stretch on.  And on.  And ooooonnnnn.

Or the weekends playing zone defense against Team “Let’s Drive Mommy Batty.”  I complain about the fact that I don’t get to pee by myself anymore.

Wait.  That last one happens all of the time. 

Oh yeah, where was I?

Poor me.

But the worst part about him being gone?  My kids miss him.  A lot.

And I’ve found that the number of times I’m asked, “How many days until dad gets home?”  seems to multiply exponentially with the number of days he has to travel.  Example:  When he travels for one day, I sometimes get asked the question once or twice.  Two days=5 or 6 questions.

So when I got wind that my husband was going to be gone for ten days this time, I did some quick calculations.  Approximately 526 questions.  My math might be a little off there.  But it’s definitely in the ballpark of 100’s.

However, I was prepared for this trip.  As soon as dad left yesterday morning, I came up with a brilliant strategy.  We pulled out a pad of sticky notes, and made a little countdown calendar.  Kind of like an advent calendar.  Except when you got to the end, there was no scary bearded guy coming down our chimney.  Just dad, coming home.

And, because I was feeling a little sorry for myself, I snapped a photo of our calendar, and posted it to my personal Facebook page.

T-minus ten days. But who's counting?

And then I sat back, and waited for my Facebook friends to shower me with well wishes and encouragement.  Because that’s what you do when you’re having a pity party, you know.

I did get a few sympathetic souls willing to play my little game.  Like this lovely lady:

(By the way, Old Tweener, I will send you my address later in the day.)

But some of my other friends seemed to take more interest in the weekly menu that was posted right next to the countdown calendar.  Those comments went something like this:

“I like your menu. Jay is missing out on some good grub!”

Or, “…At least you have some yummy meals planned. I assume J would never condone corned beef in January.”

Or, my personal favorite:

Yes, people.  My corned beef soup is delicious.  But the point of my Facebook post was not about our menu, but rather, about me and my pity party.  Sheesh.

For the record, my weekly menu planning was done before I realized I’d be flying solo this week.  I have a strict “no cooking” rule when Jay travels.  And by “no cooking,” I’m referring to the use of the stove, the oven, or any sharp knives.  The microwave, I can do.

So this morning, I reposted on Facebook a more accurate reflection of what we’ll actually be eating this week.

And now that the issue of the menu has been addressed, let the pity party recommence!

Those of you in the area are more than welcome to come join me for the festivities.  I would be grateful for the adult conversation.  And you can even stay for dinner!

I just hope you like Spaghettios.

In search of marital equality

I blame it on my math minor.  But the fact is, in my day job, I’m a person that lives by numbers, formulas, and stone cold logic.

I like it when things add up.  Life makes sense that way.

When I come home, though?  Sometimes, that’s a different story altogether.  As much as I love my husband, I have to confess:  my marriage sometimes contains inequalities that just do not make sense to me.

To illustrate my point, let’s start with an equation that does balance, shall we?

In and of itself, this isn’t a biggie.  I get it.  Let’s be honest, here.  Taco Bell does a number on me, too.

So, it’s no wonder that this would be the next logical step in the sequence:

Again, I get this.  It’s all crystal clear up to this point.

But here’s where things don’t add up:

I swear, I am not exaggerating.  It’s got to be at least three rolls, if not more.  Really, I have a hard time understanding how one person can kill so many trees in one sitting.

And, naturally, that means this is also true:

But the greatest inequity of all might be this:

I’ll give you one guess how I feel about that:

Suffice to say, after almost 13 years of marriage, there are certain equations that just don’t add up for me.

All I can admit is, it’s a really good thing this is true:

Note: I had full permission from my husband to publish this post.  What can I say.  We love potty humor in our house.

Richer by the Dozen

I’ve got a number on my mind today.  12.

It’s not a dozen eggs.  Although there are plenty of crack-ups involved.

It’s not a dozen donuts.  Although it is pretty sweet in my book.

It’s not the 12 pounds that I’ve gained, and can’t seem to shake off, post kids.  Although it does have some girth.

It’s not a dozen long stemmed, red roses.  Although one can always hope, can’t they?  Hint, hint, honey.

It’s not a half rack of beer.  We’ve gone through plenty o’ those over the years, though.

It’s not the months of the year.  It’s many months of many years.

It’s 12 years of marriage.

Twelve years of laughter, everyday life, ups, downs, a few tears, and endless fart jokes that I still laugh at even though I try not to.   I got pretty lucky when I married this guy a dozen years ago.

Happy Anniversary, Jay.  Love you.

Goodnight, Daddy

Dear Daddy,

I hereby request that, going forward, you put me to bed every night.

I know momma may have objections with this request.  She loves the fact that I snuggle up in her arms and give her warm, tight hugs before bedtime.  She loves how I lay my fuzzy little head on her shoulder and say, “I love you, momma” as she’s closing the door to my room.

But I have some sound arguments for you putting me to bed each night.  They are as follows:

  1. You rub my back to help me fall asleep.  Mom just plops me in my crib and tells me it’s time to go to sleep.  Really, which would you prefer?
  2. You let me take hard, pointy toys into my crib.  Mom never lets me have this stuff in bed because she says it’s not safe.  “You can’t sleep with your triceratops because you’ll poke your eye out with the horns,” she says.  She’s such a worry wart.  Instead, she lets me sleep with things like my Nerf football.  The same one I bit into tiny little pieces the other day.
  3. You tell better bedtime stories than momma.  Sometimes, I see mom standing at the door to my room as you read me a story.  I think she knows that you read “Where the Wild Things Are” better than she does.
  4. You let me take stickers to bed.  And, obviously, that means that you want me to plaster my entire crib, pajamas and stuffed animals with said stickers.  Why else would you give them to me, right?

I don’t think mom was amused when she saw this this morning.  But, then again, she did start laughing and ran to grab the camera.  So, maybe she did think it was funny after all.

Anyway, clearly, good things happen when you put me to bed instead of momma.  I’m thinking we should make it a regular routine.

So, pretty please, could you talk to momma about my request?

Your Son