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Wednesday, August 13, 2008August 13, 1988
 Today is our 20th wedding anniversary.Surely I'm not old enough to have been married for 20 years. Surely! That 80's pouf veil is better left forgotten. I didn't even like it back then. I was talked into it by an overbearing woman at the dress shop. I wanted a simple, fingertip veil with a small tiara. I was too timid to speak up when she told me that I needed a different kind of veil for the gown I'd chosen. I know. "Timid" and "Jill" don't belong in the same sentence. You wouldn't have known me in 1988. I like myself better now. More importantly, I still like Eric. I think I should keep him, don't you? Especially since he's taking me out to dinner tonight. It's not exactly the trip to England we'd hoped would be the hallmark of our 20th anniversary. Neither one of us expected there to be a sweet new baby in the picture. So a dinner out will have to suffice. I am blessed, though. Richly blessed! Now, what should I do with my hair... Tuesday, November 20, 2007Taking a Back Seat To TechnologyI take my marriage vows seriously. Naturally there's been more "worse" of "for better or for worse" than I would have liked to believe back when I sauntered down the aisle. That's life, and we either move on and continue to grow in love, or everything falls apart. Right? Right. And while it's true that I've never had to contend with "another woman," I now find myself contending with something almost equally threatening: Eric's Macbook Pro. It's beyond trying to get his attention while his eyes are glued to the screen. It's beyond begging him to put it away and come to bed already. For you see, I have been physically displaced by Macboy. It happened a few evenings ago. Eric came home early from work especially so that we'd have time to go grab a beer and a cider at our favorite pub before Molly's 6:30 nursing. I was ready to go when he arrived, down to my leather boots, which I haven't worn since pregnancy first threw me off balance. I clunked my way across the driveway toward the door on my side of the car. And that's when Eric stopped me. "Oh," he said, sounding a bit sheepish. "You're going to have to sit in the back. Macboy's in the front." Dumbfounded, I stopped in my tracks and gazed through the side window. There, propped lovingly on what was supposed to be my seat, was the Macbook, its monitor angled for perfect viewing from the driver's seat. He absolutely had to be kidding. The lure of a half pint of cider being stronger than my indignation, I slid into the back seat without arguing. Eric's lame explanation about being in the middle of downloading this-or-that did nothing to take away the sting of having been dethroned by a laptop. "You know, if we were dating right now, there is no way you would make me sit back here." Granted, comments like that never accomplish much, but I was too flabbergasted to say anything remotely sharp-witted. I watched helplessly as my husband caressed Macboy's mouse and carefully balanced the time he spent gazing at the screen and actually driving the car. I can't remember the last time he caressed me and fought to tear his gaze from mine while driving. Heck, I'm not even sure it happened in the first place. I think I've always preferred that Eric keep his eyes on the road while we're moving upward of forty miles per hour. And so I entered McCreary's in a state of disgrace -- Queen Catherine following quietly behind Anne Boleyn. The entire date was centered on MacBoy. Granted, Eric was setting up a new Paypal account for me (and that, I am sure, is his primary defense of the evening). But you know, it's a perfect cover when you think about it: "I'll tell my wife that I'm busy doing work for her while I make passionate love to you, Mac." So I sipped my cider and nibbled my chips while Eric's face shone softly in the glow of the monitor. It was almost time to leave when Eric finally shut Macboy down and slipped him into his canvas bag. And you'd better believe I sat in the front seat on the way home. There you have it. I've lost my place in the pecking order and I don't know how to get it back. I suppose I could drop MacBoy from my third story office window, but it would be awfully hard to make that look like an accident. Besides, Eric does spend a lot of time doing intelligent things on Macboy while I doze off in the early evenings, which makes me appear far less useful in comparison. When it's all said and done, I suppose I should hang in there. We all know what happened to Anne Boleyn in the end. Monday, October 15, 2007Sympathetic Sleepiness?I'm sleep deprived and I don't make a big deal about it. It's part of being the mother of a newborn, you know? Molly's on a great schedule; she only nurses once at night and has the occasional "oops, I woke up too early" thing going, when she needs a bit of intervention to get her back to sleep before it's actually time to nurse. So, yeah, I get up at night. And by 9:00 in the evening, I can barely keep my eyes open. That can get tricky, since Molly's last nursing before I go to bed is at 10:30. Evenings have turned into a muddy, fuzzy blur. Frustrating at times, but no big deal. It'll pass as quickly as my sweet baby's tinyhood. Interestingly, Eric seems to be suffering from symptoms of sleep deprivation, too. And I'm not sure why. Sure, he hears Molly when she cries at 3:30 in the morning. But he rolls right over and goes back to sleep. I know this because he often starts snoring several minutes later. I can't kick him or pinch his nostrils shut when I'm over on the upholstered chair nursing the baby. So I have to listen to him snoring. One night a couple of weeks ago, I threw a Hardy Boys book at him. It was the only thing I could reach and I figured it wouldn't hurt him if I accidentally beaned him on the head. Fortunately, it landed safely on the bed with enough force that he stopped in mid-snore and rolled over on his side. Last night, in the midst of less-than-human-sounding snores, I hissed his name in a stage whisper, to which he actually responded, "Huh?" And when I told him that he was snoring, he dutifully rolled over and stopped. So. The man is sleeping at night. When the alarm goes off at 6:00, I get up. Okay, sometimes I allow myself one, eight-minute snooze; but mostly, I get up at 6:00. Life goes on; I have to start my day regardless of how long I happened to be awake the night before. It's not always easy, but it's not a big deal. And what does my not-nursing-a-baby-in-the-middle-of-the-night husband do? He rolls over and continues to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Lately, he's been rolling out of bed around 7:00. An entire hour of extra sleep for the parent who has not been on night duty. It's even worse on weekends. "I hear Molly when she wakes up at night," Eric explained just yesterday. "It's affecting me." It's affecting him? Forgive me if I don't show any empathy for my dear husband. He is the love of my life, but this I'm-as-tired-as-you-are thing is not holding water. So while some husbands tend to gain weight sympathetically during their wives' pregnancies (mine did not), others, I suppose, tend to fall asleep sympathetically while their wives are dealing with middle-of-the-night feedings. Is it me, or is this weird? Maybe he needs attention. I'd love to give him some, but I'd need to be awake in order to do it. Last night around 10:00, I had dozed off once again on the sofa. When I woke up twenty minutes later, Eric told me that he'd been bumping me in the face with my Boppy and calling my name. Evidently, I was non-responsive. "You just kept going, "MMMMMMM," he said. "You wouldn't open your eyes." Do tell. Not only is he claiming sleep deprivation, but he's laughing at me when I'm not even conscious. I guess he was too tired to think of a more effective way to communicate with me. (Was bumping me in the face with my Boppy some kind of amorous move, I wonder?) I don't know. Maybe, in a way, it's better that he's sleepy. I imagine it would be beyond annoying if he were jumping around like a nut-gathering squirrel on speed, and expecting me to keep up with him. At least when I'm zoning out over coffee in the morning, he's zoning out with me. It takes the pressure off. Still, it would be nice to know that, should the intelligence and clarity of a well-rested adult be required, at least one of us would be up to the task. I'm down for the count, so it falls on Eric. And at this rate, we'd better hope that nothing requiring a great deal of thought or energy will be required of either of us. Because he's almost as sleepy as I am. And I make no excuses for him. Maybe he'll get the hint if I start complaining about my sore muscles after he's been lifting weights. You know, a kind of sympathetic muscle ache. "You've been to the gym three times this week," I'll say. "It affects me." It's worth a try. Labels: baby, family, marriage Tuesday, April 24, 2007Sharing My BirthdayIf I've got to share my birthday, I suppose it could be a lot worse than sharing it with Agent Jenny Rappaport's Blog, which turns one today. In honor of the day, Jenny is hosting a Sonnet Writing Contest. Pop on over to her blog to read my entry, along with all the others (some stiff competition there). And so today I celebrate the Nth anniversary of my thirtieth birthday. Eric took me out for breakfast this morning before work, which was absolutely the most wonderful, delightful, perfect thing he might've done. We ordered omelets. Mine had cheese, tomato, and mushrooms. Eric's had cheese, tomato, and ham. Halfway through our meal, we realized that we had each other's omelets. Guess the conversation was just that riveting. We swapped omelets, and I definitely got the short end of the stick. Eric eats faster than I do, so there was a lot less omelet on my plate after the swap. That's okay, though. I happen to know that he picked up a birthday cake for me last night at Wild Oats. It's hiding in the refrigerator. No, I haven't peeked. I can...feel it. It's chocolate. It calls to me when I pass through the kitchen. And now I've got to go do some ironing. "Don't do all that work today," Eric said. "It's your birthday. Don't do all that ironing." Pause. "Except my pants." Right. Happy birthday, where are my freshly pressed pants? Anyway, I suppose the breakfast makes up for it. I'm smiling, so I must be right. There's nothing quite like feeling utterly loved by the people who mean the most to you. I'd iron a hundred pairs of pants, just to have that feeling. No I wouldn't. But it did sound poetic while I was writing it. Labels: life, marriage, writing Thursday, April 12, 2007Blindfolds and Bellies
  Yesterday was Eric's birthday, and it seemed like as good a time as any to pose for a "belly shot" with my sweetie. After all, I suppose we must preserve for posterity proof of "Eric on his 44th birthday with Pregnant Wife." There you have it, belly and all. Secondly, the blindfold. In honor of the day, the children and I blindfolded the Birthday Boy and took him on an adventure. He loved it, of course: center of attention, taken from place to place without knowing where we were going, etc. Except. Except that Eric has an uncannily accurate sense of direction. He almost always knew where we were going before we got there. Almost always. I tried to throw him off. I succeeded in getting him to Smoothie King without his having figured it out. He thought we were at Bread and Company. That sounds like a grand success until you realize that Bread and Company is extremely close to Smoothie King. He knew where we were, he just didn't know the exact location. How infuriating. At one point, I was driving along the road that leads to Best Buy. Eric, blindfolded, suddenly waved out the side window. "What are you waving at?" I asked. "Smoky Bones." All right. We were passing the restaurant Smoky Bones on the right -- at exactly the same moment when Eric was waving. How does he DO that? Still, we had a lovely day, rounded off with a romantic dinner for two at a delightful restaurant in downtown Franklin. I had a bowl of French onion soup followed by blue crab ravioli. How exquisite is that? It's always the simple things, isn't it? They make life worth living. Stay tuned for another Simple Thing -- tomorrow is Ultrasound Day! Big announcement forthcoming. Labels: family, life, marriage Monday, April 09, 2007I'm Married To the Lorax"Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze, "I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues, And I'm asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs" -- he was very upset as he shouted and puffed -- "What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?"* Everyone knows that The Lorax is a thinly veiled environmental message. Still, it remains one of my all-time favorite Dr. Suess gems. I absolutely love reading it out loud. Now, reading The Lorax is one thing. Being married to him is quite another. Yes, I'm talking about Eric. You see, the unseasonable cold snap we've experienced over the past few days has inflicted upon my spouse a deep, psychological wound. Three nights in a row of Deep Freeze have left their mark on him -- and on our trees and shrubs. As in, dead leaves. Everywhere. And Eric, who seems to be spiritually tethered to the trees (a latter day Ent, perhaps), is vicariously feeling their pain. It's beyond ridiculous. I've watched him gazing mournfully out the back window during our morning coffee time, his eyes laced with agony for the languishing trees. I've listened to him lament, ad nauseum, about the plight of the poor spring flowers, the defiled bushes, the unhappy oaks. It was particularly bad while we drove to church on Sunday morning. Try as I might, I couldn't get Eric to get off the subject of the frost-damaged trees we passed along the way. "Eric will you please stop talking about dead things!" I finally said. "It's Easter!" His heart was not moved. "I speak for the trees," he said. Right. So pretty soon I guess he'll be lifting himself up by the seat of his pants and heisting himself through a hole in the smog, without leaving a trace. If that's the case, I'm wondering who will do the gardening. Honestly, I've been miffed by the stinky weather, too. I'm sure my lilacs, barely thriving as it is, have lost their opportunity to bloom this season. The trees do look rather pathetic, and I've had to fight hard to not succumb to gloominess on account of the stupid cold weather. (This is April in Tennessee, after all. It's supposed to be warm.) Gee whiz, though. At this rate, I'll be sending Eric to therapy sessions. "It's the trees. I...it's like I can hear them. Crying. Moaning. Like each leaf is a cell in my own body. I can feel them dying. Sometimes I see my wife's lips moving but I can't hear what she's saying. It's the trees. They're screaming so loudly inside my head. I just....I speak for the trees. You know?" Oy. *from THE LORAX by Dr. Seuss, copyright 1971 Monday, March 05, 2007Emergency?Eric and I have a little "thing" on Saturday mornings. We go out for breakfast. Yes, I know, that sounds very "retiree" of us, but it's actually a romantic, adorable way to start the weekend. And it's just the way I like it -- nice and early. We have to be back by 9:00 so that I can take Maggie to her Modern dance class. So this Saturday I was running a bit late in the bathroom and asked Eric if he'd mind running to Publix for milk and honey (rather Biblical of me, don't you think?). He was a dear and said he'd run right down. Happily, I finished up my bathroom routine and started to make the bed. That's when Rachel knocked frantically on my bedroom door. "Mommy," she said, handing me my cell phone. "It's Daddy. He's says he needs to talk to you, it's an emergency." Well, that didn't sound too good. I thanked her and took the phone. "Hello, sweetie?" Nothing. "Hello? HELLO????" A great time to lose connection. I hit the "off" button on my phone and rushed down the hallway to find Rachel, my mind spinning. What could possibly have transpired in the ten minutes since Eric had left? Did the car die? Was he hurt? "Rachel, the phone cut out. What did Daddy say?" Rachel's expression was matter-of-fact. "He said something about being at the check-out line and not having his card." Oh. Right. That was the "emergency." My darling had gone down to Publix without his wallet. I sighed theatrically and ran downstairs to grab my coat and bag. The cell phone rang. "I'm on my way." I think I heard sheepish laughter before I hung up. Three minutes later, I walked into the store and found my husband standing at the self-check lane. He was casually reading a copy of People magazine. Sitting on top of the scanner was a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Oh, that I would have brought my camera. "I'm so glad you saved all this time for me," I said sweetly as I handed him my bank card. Is this a Guy Moment or what? I mean, realizing you don't have money at a check-out counter is something that can happen to anyone. That's life. But considering the fact that Eric's bank cards and driver's license are in his wallet, I fail to understand how he can walk out the door without it. Yet he does it with alarming frequency. And yes, this was actually the second time I've had to bail him out at Publix. Why, he's driven all the way to his office in Nashville without a wallet. I'd love to hear him explain that to a police officer pulling him over for a traffic violation. "My license? Ur, I was just going to call my wife, Officer Nabme. She always brings me my wallet when I forget it. Can you wait just a few minutes?" Ah, well. I love the man. And breakfast was good -- French toast stuffed with cream cheese. But I'm thinking I need to buy some sort of Gothic chain to attach Eric's wallet to his pants. Then again, that would only ensure that his wallet would go through the wash. And that, of course, would be my fault for not having checked his pockets. The next time I send Eric to Publix, I'm going to turn my cell phone off and let him fend for himself. Labels: marriage Tuesday, February 06, 2007My Little Office Under the Eaves
 Those of you who have been reading me for any amount of time know that my "creative Hobbit hole," as it were, exists on the third story of our home, in the shape of a small, irregular room with a tiny window and lots of potential. Ever since I moved my load of stuff up here several years ago, I've been content to type away in surroundings that consist of bare floorboard, unpainted drywall, and a window with no sill or casing. Really, I've been okay with it. Nobody has used the room but me. I've got my red toile wallpaper chosen and waiting in the wings. It's been a "some day" dream of mine to have a real office instead of a half-finished, almost-office. It would appear that "some day" has arrived. Don't get excited, though. "Some day" simply means that Eric is soon to be moving in with me. (Did I hear a collective gasp?) We're giving his office to Jonathan as a bedroom, you see, as part of the "musical rooms" we have to play in preparation for Baby Number Five. Actually, I invited Eric to move in, hardly expecting the enthusiastic response he gave me. His eyes literally sparkled. I should have known I was in for it. Because all of sudden the drywall is a problem -- and the floorboards are a problem -- and goodness gracious, we must do something about that window. Excuse me. The drywall and the floorboards and the window never bothered Eric when this was my office. Now, suddenly, the walls need to be primed and painted. He's already planning on moving my computer somewhere else for a week or so, to protect me from Noxious Fumes. How thoughtful. "What color would you like to paint the walls?" Um, I don't want the walls painted. I've told Eric a dozen times that painting the walls any color is a waste of time and materials, since my heart is set on the red toile wallpaper. Priming isn't optional, but painting certainly is. And I've opted against it. Yet he persists. "What color would you like to paint the walls?" "Pink." That puts him right off the idea. Still, he's determined to forge ahead with the priming, and now he wants me to go look at flooring with him. Someone stop this man. I've got two boys' bedrooms and a baby's nursery to strip down and redecorate. Why is my husband obsessing about a tiny office under the eaves that nobody else can see? I'll tell you why. Because he's claimed fifty percent of it, and dad-gummit, he's just too aesthetically sensitive to work in a room with bare drywall. Funny. I've managed to complete two entire novels up here and am hard at work on the third. The drywall really hasn't been that distracting. Would it be awful of me to retract my invitation? To (lovingly) suggest that he take a hike? No good? Oh, I'm doomed. The one lifespace that offers me a sense of "things are okay, everything is good and peaceful" is headed toward certain upheaval. And all because I had a bighearted moment of weakness and invited my beloved spouse to share some space. This is like getting married all over again. Stay tuned for the ongoing saga. I'm sure it will get...interesting. Labels: life, marriage, writing Friday, January 26, 2007Vitamin, Vitamin, Who's Got The Vitamin?Eric and I were enjoying our morning coffee time -- sprouted bagels with butter, organic coffee with half-n-half, and the requisite vitamins placed on the coffee tray. Or so I thought. I always eat before swallowing morning pills, especially now that I'm consuming a daily, horse-pill-sized, all-natural-sans-artificially-sweetened-coating, yucky-tasting prenatal vitamin. So after having finished my bagel, I reached behind my coffee cup for the pill. It wasn't there. "You forgot my vitamin," I said, rising to go fetch one myself. "No I didn't. I set it by your coffee cup." Okay, maybe I missed it. I lifted the cup, checked the coffee tray. "Nope, it's not there." "Jilly, I know it put it there." Eric's voice was strangely insistent. "I put out two vitamins, mine and yours. I distinctly remember doing it because they were sitting side by side and I remember thinking, oh, they might get mixed up, so I moved mine over to my side of the tray." "Eric, it's not there." "I know I put them on the tray." "Did you take yours?" "I think I may have taken it while I was still in the kitchen, before I brought the tray in here." He looked at me accusingly. "Are you sure you didn't take your vitamin already?" "Eric, I did not take my vitamin." "Maybe you're just not remembering. You are pregnant, you know." "Eric, I did not take my vitamin." This was getting silly. "I always finish eating before I take vitamins, and I just now finished my bagel and reached for the vitamin, and it wasn't there." "I know I put it there." Eric proceeded to remove everything from the tray in a vain effort to produce the missing vitamin. "Are you sure you didn't take it, Jilly?" Oh. My. Gosh. I knew I hadn't taken the freaking vitamin. And now Eric was getting a sort of odd, frantic look in his eyes. "I put both vitamins on the tray. I distinctly remember doing it because they were sitting side by side and I remember thinking, oh, they might get mixed up, so I moved mine over to my side of the tray." Now he was starting to repeat himself. "Eric, maybe you took my vitamin." "Why would I take your vitamin?" "I don't know!" "Jilly, I think you must have taken your vitamin." "I-did-not-take-my-vitamin! There was no vitamin on the tray!" "This is really disturbing." (Oh, he noticed?) "Do you think maybe you might have taken my vitamin by accident?" Pause. "Maybe I could have. I don't know." Pause number two. "You say you know how many vitamins you would have taken since we bought them?" Yes, I could answer that question. It was a bottle of forty; there should have been twenty-two left -- if today's vitamin had been removed from the bottle. So Eric dumped out all of my prenatals into his (slightly trembling?) hand and counted them. "Twenty-two. So I did take it out. I knew I took it out." He looked at me imploringly. "Are you sure you didn't take your vitamin?" In the name of all goodness, I didn't know how much longer I could stand this. I once again explained that I was not able to take vitamins on an empty stomach, I had certainly not taken a vitamin that morning, and had, in fact, not seen a single vitamin on the coffee tray. "Okay. Maybe I took your vitamin. I don't know." He handed me a fresh pill. "Here. You go ahead and take your vitamin." Fine. He finally conceded. Except -- now I was doubting myself. What if I had taken the vitamin and was having a complete mental block? What would happen if I took two vitamins in the same day? "I don't want to take my vitamin." "No, really, Jilly, you need to take your vitamin." "It's okay if I skip a day, I think it would be safer if I didn't take my vitamin." "Jilly, I think I probably took your vitamin by accident." "Well, we won't know that until you check your pee. My vitamins make my pee fluorescent." Eric assured me that he would give me a full account of the relative fluorescence of his urine. And I let my prenatal vitamin sitting there, untouched. Until around lunchtime, when I began to feel distinctly ill-ish, probably due to a drop in B-6. So I took the bloody vitamin. And all was well. Note to self: Do not allow husband to handle pill bottles unattended or leave him with children who require medication. His pee was pretty interesting that day, too. Men. |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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