Warm Hearts Happy Family

One of my main frustrations with my husband is…well… it’s rather quite vain if we are being honest.  But bother me it does. 

He doesn’t look good in pictures–ever. Not because he isn’t totally studly in every way, but because he looks like he belongs in a prison cell and not in our living room.  In almost every picture.

He can not seem to figure out how to smile like a normal person for the camera.  But I am not complaining about that–it is a small miracle if he even attempts a smile.  Most of the time I get this:

Do you see where my frustration comes in? We all look so happy, and my husband looks like he is dead inside–living a life of dull boredom that is killing him slowly from the inside out.

The opposite is true however. He is the LIFE of the party, a giant kid really–trapped in an adult body. He is full of energy and happiness in general.

Except when I say lets take a family picture. In true bratty 7 year old form he pouts and refuses to smile.

So dear husband of mine, if I were you I would start smiling or else our children’s children are going to look back and think you were one grumpy ass old man.

The End.

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Happy anniversary love.  I can’t believe it has been 6 years since our wedding.  2 kids and 50 pounds later, I love you more than I did then.  You are still my best friend and my most favorite person.

Big fat smooches.

Here is to less irritation with each other, and more appreciation. Can’t wait to see what this next year brings.

Here is a photo montage starting with us in 1999, and ending this past weekend.

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Having a tall husband kicks ass.  Ony several different levels–let me break them down:

First, and most importantly, when you are 5′1 and your husband is 6′5, he is always looking at you from a downward angle.  Downward people!  No wonder he seems oblivious to the fact that I am indeed fat!  This is the short chubby woman’s lottery.  And, BONUS!  My boobs are so big that is where is line of vision probably stops.  Beautiful.

Another brilliant benefit of having a big ol man at home, is he turns from man to human jungle gym instantly.  Down on all 4’s he has enough back space to ride 2 kids (with room for a third…hmmm…one day) horseback at the same time.  Standing upright he reminds me of a strong oak tree–suitable for swinging and climbing on.

If, and let me stress if, some crazy stalker were scoping out our house with malicious intent…the sight of a large-and-in-charge man might be more hassle than our little house is worth.  I tell myself that anyway.

So honey, your mind and friendship are why I married you, but your body is what keeps me around

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My phone conversation with my husband yesterday:

Tim:  Even though our kids may not always listen, the one thing they do have is great manners. 

Me:  Yes they do…(cut off as usual by him)

Tim:  They say please and thank-you so well and they mean it.  They are such sweet kids. 

Me:  I know, they are the sweetest…(cut off.  again.)

Tim:  I don’t know where they get it from either.  Its like they were just born to have manners, its so weird.

Me:  *I actually moved the phone away from my ear and just stared at it.  Silent and blinking.  To make sure I processed what I had just heard correctly*

Tim:  Hello?

Me:  They just magically learned their manners?

Tim:  Well you know what I mean.

Me:  Actually Timmy, I worked really hard to teach our kids to be polite.  And I have been pretty succesful despite who their outrageously annoying fun-loving father is.

Tim:  Huh.  OK, gotta go.

Click.

PS Babe:  When I remind you to say please and thank-you–and heaven help us–excuse-me when the appropriate time calls, it isn’t to be a beastly nag.  It is because kids do as their parents do.  So with a little nagging nudging by me you have actually taught our babies their manners too! 

Crazy concept I know.

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Let me preface by the fact that men have come a long way baby.   There is a culture shift happening–a movement really–in which men  are plugged into their families.  They contribute equally (or in my case more) in the household chores.  That are tender with their children, they are not afraid to let their nurturing underbellies show.  They co-sleep with their children and they really brave few might even be seen wearing their babies.

My man fits most of these yummy qualities.

But a man he still is.

And apparently men still reserve the right to check out and have adult time anytime that meets their man fancy.

Like when we are at a large gathering and all the men disappear into the garage/basement/backyard/anywhere that the women and children are not.  They hoot and holler, drink beer, smoke and just enjoy feeling “free” for a few hours. 

All the while the women are gathered similarly except their time is spent as a human juggle gym, a milk bar, a monster catcher, a boo-boo fixer a spill cleaner-upper and more.

Men gallivant off to play basketball or golf in their free time.  

Women take the kids to the park.

Men escape into their man-rooms of the house when the day has drug on just a few hours too long, while the women fight with over tired kids and bed times.

Men tally up all they have done until they have filled their “time-card” and are eager to punch out…

I think I am going to try these sneaky man tactics.

How about I clean up after dinner, give baths and put on their jammies only to flee as fast as my legs will take me down to the basement so I can turn up the surround sound to drown out all that is happening upstairs.  To drown out the fervent protests to bedtime.  To drown out the sound of a teething baby’s cries.  To drown out the exasperation in my husbands voice.  And to drown out the sound of the SpongeBob SquarePants theme song filling our home for the 1,895,00 time.

Or

I can join a golf league and leave my phone in the car so I am 1,000 percent unreachable because as you know, it is absolutely against golf etiquette to even think about your phone in the presence of the golf gods.  The only way to please these gods are to drink, smoke, tell dirty jokes and scratch your balls.  Shit, I wonder if scratching the sweat between my boobs will suffice.

Or

I can pretend like I am taking out the garbage/getting something out of my car/watering the flowers but really sneak into the neighbors garage to get away and throw back a beer.

Or

I can give my husband my boobs so he can nurse the said teething baby all night long  while I lay there asleep pretending not to hear a thing.

So yes, men have come a long way but still have things pretty damn easy if you ask me.

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