MamaBloo » Marriage

Some Reasons Why I Love My Husband

Kari at MamaBloo — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 13:31:00 +0000

Because he loves going to pubs to watch sports games… not with the boys, but with ME!

He rubs my feet every single night.

He carries the kids from the living room to the bedroom every single night at bedtime. Even though I am sure he is in ample amounts of pain by the time he gets to kid #4… or maybe even #2…

He loves all kids.

He loves all vampires.

He cannot follow even the simplest plot line on a TV or Movie. This makes me look like a freakin’ genius — especially if I actually PREDICT the ending, which I have taken to writing down and putting in an envelope to be opened after the finale so as to not ruin it for him.

He can do Calculus but struggles with dividing up a single quesidilla amongst 5 kids.

He never ever yells… at anyone.

He calls Emme “Sweet Girl” and there in no one she would rather be with than him.

He has amazing blue eyes, killer biceps, and a sexy jawline.

He tries harder than anyone I know.

He loves 80′s power ballads. Especially, “My Heart Will Go On” from the Titanic soundtrack. Could I even make that up?

He can turn the simplest conversation into a science lesson.

He learned to love baseball just for me.

He is deeply kind.

He works two demanding jobs so I can stay home with the kids.

He loves me not in spite of my cantankerous side but because of my cantankerous side.

His favorite students are the ones on the fringe, the ones who have lost hope in school… and then he wins them over.

That even though he turned 39 yesterday, he thinks he can pull-off looking like he is in his mid-20′s by donning a hat and baggy shorts.

Happy Birthday, honey, I love you!

Mowing the Lawn. Why It Never Seems to Happen.

Kari at MamaBloo — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 13:30:59 +0000

I worried that I have completely emasculated my husband. True, he’s a TAD bit hen-pecked. But I may have gone too far this time. So, a while back I read that running a gas lawn mower for one hour has the equivalent impact on the environment as 40 cars idling in traffic for the same amount of time. Well, being from the Northwest where being green is a requirement for citizenship, this freaked me out. So, when we were in the market for a new lawn mower, I made the unilateral decision that we would get an electric mower. I remember standing in Home Depot and Dave had this sort of defeated look on his face. The look said, “Is this the battle I want to fight, because I have to pick them carefully….” to which I responded with this look, “40 cars, Dave, 40 freaking cars….” and we went home with the electric mower.

But the sad truth is we both hate the lawn mower. I hate it because I miss that loud, growling noise each time the lawn is mowed. I mean, the sound of a running lawn mower screams, “SUMMER” and is just so “cool.” It’s like the yard work equivalent of a Harley Davidson. You know what I mean. But, frankly, our electric lawn mower sounds like a sewing machine. And I hate to sew. I think Dave hates it for mostly the same reasons — but he would define it thus: It’s a wimpy lawn mower. Don’t get me wrong, it works and gets the job done (when it actually gets used…more on that it a sec.) but it screams “Girlie-Man” like nobody’s business. It doesn’t help that you have to trail a cord behind you as you mow – or that one of the wheels always falls off.

What have I done?

So, because we have the world’s stupidest lawn mower, our lawn is almost never mowed. Which is another reason why I hate this mower.

Here you can see that the indentities of the innocent are being protected. No one wants to be associated with this yard.

This is the situation that has developed in our yard. In our own defense, we are not big yard work people to begin with, but our yard was designed by the world famous Jamie Durie – who, I might add, is anything but a girlie man. But you would never know that our lawn was professionally landscaped — all due to our lawnmower. I think it is my fault. Well, mine and the environment’s.

One Heckofa Day

Kari at MamaBloo — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 13:30:33 +0000

Tuesday, June 15th started off pretty well….

5:30am – Dave leaves to get to his 7:30am job interview in city located 25 minutes south.

7:00am – Emme wakes up a bit early, so I choose to forgoe my early shower (afterall, grandma is in town so I will have time later!).

7:20am – Stumble downstairs. Jade is all ready for school and Ty and Emme and Grandma are all waking up slowly in the living room. I grab a cup of coffee and settle in for what should be a nice, well-planned day. I say a little prayer for Dave that his interview goes well.

7:59am – Jade leaves for school.

But then…

8:00 am – Ty informs me that he played a joke on daddy and has hidden daddy’s keys. What? Where?

8:01am – Ty reveals Dave’s work keys to the school and classroom, plus his ID badge. I have an “a ha” moment about the remark last night when Dave said, “I can’t find my keys.”

8:03am – Text Dave, “Ty hid yr keys. We have them here if U need them.”

8:05am – Dave calls to inform me that they moved his interview back to 9:15am and that he is on his way home to get his keys. I do mental math (not my strong point, by the way) and realize by the time he gets home, he will have only about 10 minutes before he will need to get back into his car and head back to his interview.

8:07am- Izzy asks me, “Will you flat iron my hair for 6th grade graduation today?” Yes, go get flat iron and plug it in in Jade’s bathroom where there is more counter space.

8:08am – Load Izzy and Lily’s fancy dresses into garbage bags because it has started pouring down rain.

8:10am – Izzy and I head down to bathroom to work on her hair. Ty trails behind us to watch.

8:11am – Ty touches the hot part of the flat iron. Screams, “I touched it on accident!!!!!” I pick him up and run to the other bathroom because Jade’s sink backs up really easily. Run finger under cold water for several minutes. Carry sobbing 5 year old to kitchen and put on bandaid. Hold him. Carry him back to Jade’s bathroom

8:15am – Dave arrives home. Ty runs from bathroom to get a hug from Daddy. I begin flat ironing hair.

8:19am – Flat ironed hair looks pretty darn good.

8:20am – Walk down the hallway and question Dave’s outfit choice for interviewing. I run upstairs to the closet to see if I can do better. I can’t.

8:22am – Return downstairs to Ty and Emme screaming in Dave’s arms. Loudly. I don’t ask.

8:23am – I sit on big chair and go into an alternate universe where they have unicorns.

8:26am – Microwave my coffee and take my first sip.

8:29am – Dave starts to leave, but kids are still screaming. I got it, I say. Just go. Oh, and good luck on your interview.

8:30am – Ty tackles me on the big chair. Cries some more. I use deep breathing techniques to get him to relax. Emme decides to walk around the living room with a dishtowel over her head and discovers that this can cause her to run into things.

8:35am – Izzy and Lily (remember them?) gather stuff to get ready for school.

8:45am – Neighbor girl shows up to pick up Izzy and Lily and they head out the door.

And to wrap it all up…

8:45am to 1:15pm – a short hiatus where I debrief Dave’s interview, finally get my shower, throw in a load of laundry, eat breakfast, fix lunch, put Emme down for a nap, put on nice clothes for aforementioned 6th grade graduation, pack a snack and camera for the afore aforementioned graduation, help grandma pack a picnic for upcoming swim meet, watch Ty’s “battle show” on TV.

2:00 to 5:30pm – All 8 of us (including Grandma Bloo) attend a 90 minute 6th grade graduation where Emme tries to steal the show multiple times by shouting “YA YA” at the top of her lungs and performing 1 year old dance moves to all the music from the slideshow. Then Grandma, Dave, and I put hands in a circle and yell “BREAK” and run in three different directions. Me to dentist with Jade and Ty, Grandma to swim meet with Izzy and Lily, Dave to home with Emme. We exchange seven texts and four phone calls between us — none while driving — and I finally arrive home before the rain starts up again only to read an email that reveals that Lily is on the wrong soccer team for the Fall. Seriously?

5:31 to 7:38pm – Eat some form of food, have talk with Dave about why he doesn’t take me on fancy dates any more, discover there is no toilet paper in our bathroom, and realize the underwire in my bra is trying to empale me.

7:39pm – -Open beer.

7:40pm – Make a mental note to not forget anything on tomorrow’s agenda.

7:41pm- Drink beer

The End. Well, not really.

Do You Know Your Husband?

Kari at MamaBloo — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 13:45:48 +0000

On our recent vacation to Whidbey Island, I found these little quiz books at the local “everything” shop.

And because I have a devilish sense of humor, I bought them. When Dave saw them he said, “Oh Great” and then he prepared himself for the worse.

These are the kind of questions I had to answer about him:

#2 Does he have his tonsils?

#9 What is his shoe size?

#42 How many times a day does he brush his teeth?

These are the kinds of questions he had to answer about me:

#5 What is her favorite color?

#11 How often does she shop for groceries?

#36 Has she ever used a power saw?

See, it starts off innocent enough, and I have to say both Dave and I were doing quite well on our respective quizzes.

#73 Which one of these CAN’T she do? A.) Touch her toes B.) Stand on her head C.) Jumpstart a car or D.) Rewire a lamp.

Uh, yeah, I can’t do any of those…

How about these:

#48 Does she know who Pythagoras was?

Whatever…

#14 Would he like to ride into space?

Totally, he would be there in a second. I, however, have to be drugged to ride in an airplane.

But then a few zingers found their way into the game, for example:

#26 Which one of your women friends does he find the most attractive?

Let’s just say I got that one right. Not because he admitted it, but because he turned bright red and opened a beer.

#89 Is there anything you (he) can do that SHE can’t?

No. I can even pee standing up, if required. Oh, wait, he can swim the butterfly. Take it from me, my butterfly is pretty darn ugly. I also cannot do calculus.

#43 What would she say about the idea of a strip club a mile from your home? A.) “Where do I sign to protest?” B.) “Makes no difference to me!” C.) “Great!” or D.) “Hmmm, Wonder if they are hiring?” Well, since the high school I used to work at is RIGHT NEXT to a strip club (I kid you not), I am gonna go with C. Okay, just kidding.

Of course, now when some creep out ther googles “strip club” my blog will come up. Lovely.

So, if you are bored this summer and looking to torture your husband, pick these little gems up. Or better yet, give them as wedding gifts. The groom will thank you, I am sure.

The Double Slit Experiment

Kari at MamaBloo — Fri, 14 May 2010 13:30:00 +0000

So, as Dave and I are climbing into bed last night, I take the opportunity to tell him about a couple of back-to-back nightmares I had the night before. I am not prone to nightmares but these two were especially vivid as they both dealt with Ty being in mortal danger and me, the mommy, being fingertips away from saving him but not being able to. I normally don’t talk about stuff like that as I don’t believe in putting stuff like that out there. But last night I needed to shake the dreams by telling my husband. He listens and does the much needed nodding and cooing. Then he says, “Ugh, sometimes I have waking nightmares where I imagine something happening right before my eyes.” I nod… oh, we are being so supportive to each other right now. “Oh yeah, like when you’re walking down the stairs carrying Emme and you have this flash of yourself tumbling down while you’re holding her?!?!” We sorta sit there and nod. Sigh. I feel satisfied in our mutual comiseration of morbid thoughts. And then Dave says THIS:

“Well, we all know about the double slit experiment.”

What-huh-huh-huh-eh?

Well, no actually, I don’t, I inform him. Oh, he says, you are just baiting me, aren’t you? Correction, husband, you baited me with your weird science-teacher talk and now, I fear, I am in for some rudimentary lesson in physics that I know… know I can live without.

Well, the double slit experiment is pretty well-known, he says. Great. Now I am being insulted as well. Perhaps I am the only person in all of the world who has never heard of this COMMON, well-known, probably on Sesame Street experiment, but, please, continue. So, he tells me that if you take a piece of common cardboard and put two slits in it and shine a light through the two slits, one gets a pattern on the opposing wall that looks like stripes because (and this is where I have to take his word for it) two electrons are interacting with each other to create the pattern. But, oh and here it gets really really crazy, if one turns down the intensity of the light so that only ONE electron goes through the slit, you will still see the same pattern on the opposing wall. Even though, he says with a gleam in his eye, there is only one electron passing throught he slits. You can imagine my chagrin at never having heard of this amazing experiment.

But it gets better.

But if only one electron is passing through the slit, he ponders, where is the other electron? The one needed to interact with the original electron and therefore create the striped pattern? I hold my breath. Well, says Dave, we can’t prove it yet, but the most PLAUSIBLE (this word is very important so remember it… plausible) explanation is that the other electron is in an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. Are you saying that in some alternate universe I actually fell down the steps with Emme???? NO, but there are zillions and billions of alternate universes. And guess who came up with this whole thing, he asks? I shout out perhaps the only famous scientist I know, certain of success: EINSTEIN!! No, Dave says….. it was GOD. And this is all coming from a man who refuses to watch LOST because it doesn’t make sense.

A moment of silence passes and then I say: Go get my computer! Oh good, he says, you’re going to Google this, aren’t you.

Nope. I am going to blog.

Tomorrow we are going to analyze a Shakespearean sonnet before bedtime and then discuss Dante’s 9 circles of hell… one of which I was on during the discussion of the double slit experiment. Stay tuned.

My Root Core

Kari at MamaBloo — Wed, 12 May 2010 13:30:36 +0000

When my Ty was born, Dave would actually try and compete with me on over who was the “most tired.” I would say, “I am sooooooooooooooooooooo tired!” and he would say, “Me, too.” And I would say, “But not as tired as I am.” And he would sorta squint and look at me and say, “I think I might be” and then I would say,”No, Dave. That is not possible. I am nourishing another human being from my (said in a whisper) breast every two hours.” I would say, “Dave, I am tired at my ROOT. I am tired at my CORE.”

In an effort to streamline things, we have now abbreviated the whole mess to I am “tired at my root-core.” And the phrase lives on. Oh, we can really throw down on this one. Dave has two jobs working with teenagers that require him to commute to two different cities and he usually works 2 weekends a month as well. Plus, when he walks through the door, he is expected to be daddy and uncle Dave and be smiling and happy and give me a foot rub. Me? Well, I am in charge of five kids ranging in age from 1-14. Enough said.

We’re tired.

Can I get a witness?

Most days I tackle our life with grace and aplomb. Not really. Most days I tackle our life with a gritty determination to do my best and not send anyone into therapy. To get all the hugs in. To make sure they are all fed. To listen to my gut. To pray. To breathe. To get a shower in, if not make-up on. To kiss my husband when he walks through the door. To call my mom. To parent with intention.

But April nearly killed me.

And it bled a bit over into May.

These last few weeks included a very sick one year old, three trips to the ER –two trips for head lacerations on two different kids and one of those trips was for me because I broke my toe. And if anyone thinks I am being a wimp about a broken toe, come on over and ram your toe into the mega vacuum cleaner we own. No? Okay, let me continue with my list. These last few weeks included sports for three of the kids — that’s Track, Soccer, and Martial Arts — a 1/2 dozen birthday parties to ATTEND and two to HOST, Dave starting a new job, and a huge project that I cannot even begin to tell you all about because it is just that top secret. I am also the room mom for preschool and for some reason I just signed a permission slip last night for Izzy to attend and help out at the school carnival. Whah? I know it is all just LIFE and I am not complaining. But last night I decided to up the ante on our “tired competition.” As I was coming home from a preschool board meeting after spending a total of four hours and 7 phone calls trying to restore our internet and a Costco run that had my broken toe throbbing, I looked over as Dave was pulling in the driveway from swim practice. I said to him. “Hey Dave, my root-core just BROKE!”

He stopped. Looked at me. “Well, okay… you win!”

A-ha!

I win!

I am the most tiredest of us all! I win!

I wonder what my prize is?

Doing Things the Right Way

Kari at MamaBloo — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 13:30:00 +0000

Please tell me that I am not the only one out there who tilts their head and says “huh?” when their husband does something the “wrong” way.

I mean, okay, I will stipulate that I need to chill sometimes. Micromanagement is a genetic disorder in my family (yes, mom, you have it, too…).

But sometimes I am simply stunned into silence (well, not really…) at the things that Dave does.

While making lunch: ”You did NOT just put syrup on the kids’ peanut butter sandwiches?!”

While helping with the baby: “Are you actually going to change the baby’s poopie diaper while she is STANDING UP?”

While sorting laundry: “How did you confuse my t-shirt (or stranger still, my underwear…) with Jade’s?”

I am very lucky to have a husband who helps, but sometimes… no, no… most of the time, I just don’t get it.

8 Years

Kari at MamaBloo — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 13:30:12 +0000

Today is our 8th wedding anniversary. Here we are 8 years ago.

Our Wedding Day!

Here we are today!

June 2009

Let’s just say…. A lot has happened in 8 years! I love you, honey! Happy Anniversary!

MAMABLOO WANTS TO KNOW: Date Night?

Kari at MamaBloo — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 13:30:05 +0000

Oh yes, I have heard of these… these… DATE NIGHTS? They are a rare and exotic creature in our house. The planets have to align just right, there must be a elder in town (aka Grandma Bloo) from the faraway regions (aka Yakima, WA), and there must be well, honestly, the date night participants cannot be in a knock-down-drag out fight….

Dave and I are simple folk. We’re not foodies or art-lovers. The perfect date night for us is a night at a pub (one of our favorites is THE ATTIC in Madison Park, Seattle) having pub food and a malt beverage. Even better if there is a Seahawk or Mariner game on while we dine. Follow that up with a walk somewhere interesting — along the water, on a trail, down a city-block — winding up in a bookstore to browse. We may throw in a movie if there is something we are dying to pay $75 (it seems) to see. Our only rule is we are only allowed to talk about the kids in the car… once out of the car, we must talk about something else. Oh, our other only rule is that no one is allowed to puke. We once went on a three-in-a-row date night stint where one of us ended up puking at the end of the night. No, we did not over-indulge… the flu, food poisoning, and vertigo were the culprits.

The Attic in Madison Park Seattle

What does YOUR perfect date night look like?

Lunatic, Liar, or Mom?

Kari at MamaBloo — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 15:39:18 +0000

Those of us walking around calling ourselves mothers could easily be mistaken for lunatics. Seriously, the guilt alone from forgetting to drop Lily off at piano lessons or not nursing Ty until he could drive, is enough to weigh down a small burro. But then you start to add the real maniacal moments like when I first found my husband carrying my baby boy in a Baby Bjorn and doing the dishes at the same time. I mean, holy crap, that would send anyone over the edge, right? Isn’t it obvious that this multi-tasking in the male gender is to be treated with suspicion at least and horror at most – well, as a mother, I chose horror. What if my son fell out? What if he was emotional damaged from being reduced to assistant kitchen scullery maid? What if my husband got it in his mind that he could replace me and I was unneeded in the family (I mean, afterall, he was tending the child and doing the dishes) Like I said, lunatic.

As for Liar, that is a bit more complicated. I think we moms and wives actually lie a lot. And let’s face it, telling the truth can be really overrated. It did not work to my advantage when, after seeing the movie Troy, my husband asked me if he looked like Brad Pitt (I kid you not) and I, well, told the truth. “Not even close, honey… not even close.” The look of utter disbelief and betrayal on his face snapped me right our of my truth-telling high and I quickly countered with, “But I am sure by the time you are 40, you’ll be a spitting image of the god Achilles, uhem, I mean Brad Pitt.” Remarkably, this little gem seemed to work. I cannot remember the last time I told the truth about one of the worksheets containing triangles, squares, and circles with chicken-scratched pencil marks along the photocopied edges that my kids bring home from school to show me. I say, “Wow, good job, you are amazing!” And my kids do do a good job and they are amazing, but this is hardly represented by a worksheet. But, isn’t it my duty to pretend it is? I don’t think Lily would ever quite recover if she came home to show me her schoolwork and I said, “Explain to me the pedagogical objective that your teacher accomplished by giving you this work and which of the state’s learning requirements does this meet?” Or, even better yet, really get them thinking with, “What did you learn about yourself by doing this busy work?” I am guessing that going with the “WOW, Good Job” is better suited for the psyche of a 10 year old little girl.

The more powerful lies are the ones we moms tell ourselves. We tell ourselves that we can do it all, that we can do it alone, and that the endless hours of taking care of everyone else won’t really take its toll on us. We tell ourselves that the burnt toast tastes as good as the yummy golden brown one we just sacrificed for our first born. We claim that we don’t mind that we turned in our sporty red BMW for a mini-van and that our children don’t really define who we are. We lie about how much we need our husbands to understand us and our girlfriends to validate our choices. And we lie to ourselves that we will ever ever be able to have a flat stomach again — because the truth about that one is just too much to take.

But the truth is this. That when we become mothers we are transformed. The old passes away and we are a new creation. We understand viscerally the meaning of sacrificial and unconditional love. And in this state I think we would willingly forfeit our lives so that our children can live richer fuller ones than we ever had. A lunatic? A liar? Nah, just a good mom.