Baby love.

Well, she's here. At long last.

I'm proud to say that Sweet Pea lives up to all the promise of a new baby girl: Sweet, delicate features, impossibly tiny toes and soft, gentle coos that melt your heart.

She's already won her spot as little sister in our big happy family, with the big kids alternately doting on her and fighting over who gets to hold her next.

With just a little over a week in, she's a good baby. Content and quiet, Sweet Pea prefers to sleep for long stretches during the day and, surprisingly, is not up all hours of the night.

She and I are working together trying to figure out this whole nursing thing, which despite some speed bumps, seems to be going fairly well.

The jury's out on who she looks like most, though, she's definitely got Mark's dimpled chin.


Her delivery was crazy quick -- something to be expected being my fourth baby and all -- but it still took me by surprise. When all was said, she was here in about 5 hours and came out face up and howling. (Truthfully, we both were howling since my epidural barely had time to take effect.)

But, like any mom, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.


When we got home, The Deuce (10 years old), asked me, "Mom, are you done having kids yet?"

Unable to get a good read on her, I asked, "Do you think we should stop now?"

"No way," she answered, stroking Sweet Pea's cheek.

Let's just take things one day at a time.

Babywatch 2010

T minus 20 days and counting.

20 days. I alternate between feeling impatient that Sweet Pea will never get here (and I'll be a huge, fat preggo forever) and nervous that she might possibly come early (and create huge logistical challenges both here and at work).

It sucks feeling like a time bomb.

I've officially moved to the living room couch so I can try to get a decent night's sleep and have outgrown some of my already tent-like maternity clothes. The kids drift in and out of the bathroom while I'm getting ready, begging me to lift up my shirt to reveal my huge, freakish belly. When I do, they cry, "EW!" and scamper off, giggling.

Two coworkers have told me they refuse to ride in an enclosed car or take the elevator with me anymore. One insists he's got a hot pot of boiling water ready to go at a moment's notice. I routinely hear, "You're STILL here?!?" as I walk through the building, wishing I was home, cuddling a new baby.

At work, I'm in the process of trying to wrap up projects and gently extract myself from new ones. The busy season at work is starting to wind down (thank God), but the loose ends are endless and despite my daily struggle to haul my big self to work in the first place, I can't stand logging off at night with that mountain of work still in my inbox, screaming for my attention.

At home, I'm as ready as I'll ever be. The Go Bag is packed, fridge is stocked and emergency call list is safely loaded in my cell phone. The baby's room is set, car seat ready for installation and a load of baby blankets and clothes are washed, folded and ready to go.

And all we do now is wait, which for an impatient control freak like me, is torture.

Thus is the sucky limbo land of the last three weeks of pregnancy. It feels like FOREVER in the moment, but I know that soon, when I look back, it'll feel like a nanosecond's worth of time and I'll wonder why I was so impatient.

And then I remember how wonderful new babies are. Those tiny toes, delicate tulip-like lips, soft little baby coo's -- impossibly sweet. Impossibly delicious.

I just can't wait.

A Guy You Can Depend On.

Mark works in HR, managing employee benefits.

I work at the same company in Corporate Communications, writing employee benefits communications.

Together, we're a match made in heaven.

One would think that being married to a co-worker would have its pitfalls and drama, but we've found this isn't the case--at least not for us. We don't mind the fact that our dinner-table conversations often include discussions surrounding benefit plan summaries, print deadlines and whether more people take a lump-sum payment or prefer to receive annuities for their pension benefits.

Really. We don't.

So as you can imagine, the fall's a pretty busy time for us, being that it's benefits open enrollment season.

Oh, and by "pretty busy" I mean totally effing insane.

From August to November, we're working our hardest. And, oddly enough, with nothing but benefits open enrollment on the brains, somehow, SOMEHOW, we always almost forget to enroll ourselves.

Well, not this year. And Sweet Pea, our impending bundle of joy, is why. This year, we will switch out of single coverage and roll into a family plan--which leads me to a topic that's become a source of some tension:

Who will be whose dependent?

This came up a few weeks ago at dinner when I offered to enroll in the family plan and add Mark and the baby as dependents. I thought I was being a considerate wife, offering to do the ugly paperwork. I had no idea that the sheer mention of ME adding HIM as MY dependent would cause such a stir.

"Me? Your dependent? Not hardly," he scoffed. "I'm NOBODY'S dependent."

I sat, dumbstruck for a moment.

"Do you think that being someone's dependent for medical insurance implies that they're somehow inferior to the other person?"

I wanted him to openly admit this ridiculous insinuation.

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm nobody's dependent," he repeated with a sly smile.

Personally, I could care less who is whose dependent. I just want to make sure we don't miss the deadline to enroll.

But it just goes to show, no matter how advanced you think your guy is, deep down, they're all part neanderthal.

Dumb Shit My Husband Does.

I need to preface this post by saying, I don't just love my husband. I LOVE him.

He is, WITHOUT A DOUBT, one of the most capable, talented and inspired people I know. I tell him often how he's clearly the smartest out of the two of us, not to mention the luckiest SOB I've ever met. Take him to a casino. Really. You won't be disappointed.

He's handy. He's handsome. And he's mine. I'm truly blessed to have him in my life.

That said...

There are things he does that simply defy logic -- things that leave him howling in pain and both of us scratching our heads in amazement.

Here's a brief list:

He is forever banging his head on things. Sure, he's tall and doesn't have as much clearance when it comes to doorways and hatchbacks, but if I have to watch him whack his head on the freezer door while reaching in the fridge for a root beer ONE MORE TIME, I think I'm going to lose my shit.

And he doesn't just whack it, say, "ouch" and move on. He whacks it HARD. So hard, in fact, that he'll fall to the floor, shout in pain, and instantly grow a ginormous goose egg. (It's quite a scene.) When he makes contact, we both see stars and little cartoon tweetie birds, circling his sore noggin.

The first time I saw him whack his head, I rushed to his side, prepared to provide first aid. The second through fortieth time, I did the same. Now when he whacks his skull, a nearly bi-monthly occurrence, I briefly glance over, look for blood, and then simply shake my head.

He burns his mouth on hot food at least once a week. Seriously. I know I should take it as a compliment that my cooking is so darn tasty, that despite the fact it's just been pulled from the oven and is visibly steaming, he crams a heaping forkful into his mouth and then winces in searing, scalding pain.

Again, if this happened only a few times in our marriage, I'd be more sympathetic, but he scalds his mouth damn-near weekly, if not more often. Everyone else on the planet knows to skim that first forkful off the top, blow gently and proceed cautiously. But that basic survival skill is truly lost on the guy. And I can't figure out why.

(And BTW, when the baby starts on solid food, there's no way I'm letting him heat and serve her anything I haven't temperature tested first. )

He's constantly biting his lips, tongue and cheeks. Again, an every once in a while thing isn't a big deal, but this happens so frequently - and with such startling, bloody results - I can barely sit through a meal with the guy.

The other day we went for dinner at a local restaurant, where he chomped into a sandwich, simultaneously biting through the tough, French bread and the tip of his tongue. I spent the rest of the meal watching him dab away blood in his dinner napkin.

So gross.

I've heard of people who are blessed with intelligence, but lack common sense. I had a college roommate like that. A talented architecture student, he regularly aced exams and dazzled his professors, but the guy couldn't work a washing machine, heat a can of Spaghetti O's or remember to pay rent to save his life.

Mark's not like that.

He's not absent minded or forgetful. He's quite the contrary. I guess he's just somewhat accident prone -- to the SAME accidents over and over.

We both joke about his inability to learn from these mishaps. We both marvel that he hasn't figured out to duck each time he unloads the back of the van. Maybe he's losing brain cells with all those lumps he's taking.

He calls himself "the dumbest smart guy in the world" and, while I wouldn't go that far, he does get pretty close sometimes.

Maybe I should've seen the signs. When I met him, his medicine cabinet was stocked with every kind of bandage conceivable. His band-aid supply included small, medium and large sizes, special shapes for fingertips and knuckles and even gigantic gauze bandages. (Mine had two kinds: Toy Story and Disney Princess.)

Too bad they don't make one for self-inflicted, nearly severed tongue injuries.

So as we anticipate the birth of our baby and pontificate on if she'll have his black hair or my brown eyes, I whisper silent prayers that she inherits my basic, innate survival skills -- skills that her dear father lacks.

His family legacy depends on it.

Rainy Saturday

Having an ever-growing herd of kids makes it tough to have some good one-on-one time with each of them. But Mad Dog and I snuck away early one Saturday morning to explore the farm stand and find the best doughnuts in town.

Here's our journey:

Mission accomplished.

Commando camping

Last weekend we took our first family camping trip.

I'm not really much of a camper. I went a few times as a kid and have a few vague memories from it -- like listening to my dad curse as he tried to assemble the tent in the dark and eating lukewarm Dinty Moore Stew straight from the can for breakfast.

I know we had fun, but I don't think my parents dug it all that much. (Though, crazy, as is sounds, I LOVE Dinty Moore Stew because of that one trip.)

Mark, on the other hand, practically grew up on a campground. His parents were serious campers, first starting out with a tent, then moving on to a pop-up camper and eventually renting a seasonal lot where they spent nearly every weekend for a good 20 years. A former Boy Scout, Mark knows his way around a campfire.

So on our third date, when he suggested we take the kids camping sometime, I casually blew him off, thinking that neither me or the kids (total TV and video game fanatics) would be all that into it. I had visions of three hot and sweaty kids, sitting glumly at a picnic table, whining about how bored they were. I changed the subject and he didn't try to change it back.

Not right away, anyway.

Every now and again over the next few years, Mark would bring it up, suggesting we visit his favorite campground, only two hours away. Unfortunately, for two summers in a row, our weekends quickly filled up and we weren't able to find any free time to get away for a long weekend.

Until now.

This spring, as we planned out our vacation time for the year, Mark brought it up, pointing out how the kids are the perfect age to go fishing and roast s'mores. He laid out a whole cost analysis, showing me how after our initial investment in camping gear, we could take a weekend camping trip for under $90.

Appealing to my inner cheapskate, I agreed.

The initial investment proved greater than either of us had imagined. As the clerk totaled our ginormous bill at Gander Mountain, we looked at each other in a slight panic.

Mark whispered in my ear, "The first kid who complains of being bored is getting a backhand."

I agreed and added, "We are now officially Camping People. We will camp all of the time. We can't afford to be anything else."

So last weekend, we got our gear together and hit the road for Mark's favorite campground. I primed the kids by painting a compelling picture of getting back to nature.

No electricity?

No problem. We'll live off the land!

The kids, still somewhat skeptical, humored me and feigned excitement.

Turns out getting back to nature was easier than I thought. The kids never once complained about missed TV shows, or the Nintendo DS games purposefully left at home. They were eager to fish and play near the lake.

And, realizing I'd accidentally forgotten to pack Crowbar's swim suit, he eagerly went commando, wearing a pair of lightweight shorts to the swimming hole. He started walking around without a shirt -- something he's never done at home.

And at that moment, something changed in the boy. It was as if the 5 year old from the suburbs transformed into a Wild Thing, eager to fish, catch turtles and poke bugs with sticks.

He even danced around the fire, summoning the flames to lick our marshmallows.

Crowbar: Nature Boy. Who knew?

At the end of the trip, the kids actually complained and whined when it was time to go home. The Deuce suggested we stay for a whole week next time. And as we pulled out of the campground, they waived good-bye to the playground, lake and swimming hole.

The whole weekend was pleasantly surprising. I found my inner campfire cook and the kids embraced the simple life for a whole weekend. One of my favorite parts was settling down in our sleeping bags to warm up and nap on one particularly chilly afternoon. I can't remember the last time I had all my babies around me, laying quietly and whispering softly.

It was bliss.

And thank goodness for it too. We're Camping People now.

Side note: While we were gone, the dogs were kenneled at a nearby pet spa. Even with the best rates in town, it cost more to board them than it did to reserve our campsite for two days.

Got wood?

We recently made a major purchase -- a table saw for Mark.

When he first broached the subject of getting one, he was fully prepared to make a passionate appeal. Me, eyeing a kitchen renovation in my future, did not need convincing. My ugly laminate cabinets have got to go and if a shiny new Craftsman will make this happen faster, then God speed to the nearest Sears, my love.

And so we have another new addition to the family: A 300 lb. table saw.

Even though I gave my blessing on this acquisition, on one level, I can't help but feel like my husband's taken a mistress. He sneaks off for numerous quiet encounters with the saw. Sometimes they just talk, and other times they grind away.

Last weekend, they spent a long lazy Sunday together while I stayed behind, tending to children and laundry. When he came upstairs to bed with saw dust on his collar, I felt a twinge of jealousy.

And then I found this:

Handyman porn. This may as well read: Tools and Jugs.

I don't know, maybe I'm being naive. He keeps promising me new cabinets, bookshelves and furniture, but I haven't seen anything but a pile of sliced-up plywood so far.

What love is.

• Scraping ice from your honey's windshield on a cold winter morning.
• Buying his favorite ice cream - and then not devouring it yourself during a late-night chocolate bender.
• Leaving love notes under her wiper blade for her to find after a tough day's work.
• Saying, "It's not that bad, really," when eating a dinner experiment gone wrong.
• Giving his sick dog a bath -- not once, but twice -- in 3 days. (A Pomeranian with the runs is not pretty.)
• Letting her pick the next NetFlix movie.
• Rubbing her shoulders first when yours need it too.
• A random mid-day email, telling him he's cute.
• Preheating her side of the electric blanket on a cold winter night so when she crawls into bed it's already cozy and warm.
• Snow blowing the driveway before he gets home so he doesn't have to do it in the dark.
• Nodding sympathetically when she's on a crazy PMS-induced rant.
• Making his favorite meal even though it's horribly fattening and you're trying to keep your weight down.

What else? How do you say, "I love you," without words? Please share!

When you're gone.

• There's too much coffee left in the pot at the end of a morning.
• I don't have a cheerleader at dinnertime. (Just a table full of whiners who don't want to finish their peas.)
• The dog follows me everywhere, afraid the only other adult also will vanish.
• I invite the kids into our bed so I don't have to sleep alone.
• Nobody goes into the garage. Ever.
• I dance and sing like a dork a little less often.
• We select our weekend football picks on Monday night.
• I clean more and sit and relax less.
• I do your laundry with a smile because I can still smell your cologne on it.

Come back home to me honey. I miss you.

~~~

My sweetie has been in the hospital for the last few days. Thankfully he's going to be okay and will come home very soon.

Any prayers and well-wishes are much appreciated.

Stinky Face gets me every time.

Crowbar is my snuggler.

Out of the three kids, he is always the first to climb up onto my lap, bury his head in my chest and then look up with his deep blue eyes and say,

"I love you, Mommy."

Mommy.

He's the only one who calls me Mommy. Correction: He's the only one who consistently calls me Mommy -- and not just when he wants a new toy or piece of candy.

Sometimes when I put him to bed, instead of sitting primly on the edge, I climb in and nestle down with him under the covers. We snuggle close and talk about the day's events or read books. I stroke his hair, rub his back and sometimes even drift off to sleep for a minute or twenty.

It's delicious.

This week, Crowbar has been particularly snugly. I'm not sure why, but he's been sitting extra close and snuggling extra long.

I lap it up, knowing that some day my boy won't want to share these tender moments. Some day, he, like his older sisters, will get bigger and more independent. And some day, he'll be too big for the two of us to fit on his twin bed.

So for now, I savor these moments, careful to remember every detail and appreciate every curve of his sweet four year-old face.

The other night, as I put him to bed, he pulled back his Lighting McQueen comforter and asked me to get in and read him a book. He picked one of my favorites:

I Love You, Stinky Face, by Lisa McCourt

It's a story about a mother and child at bedtime and it reminds me of Crowbar and me.

"I love you, my wonderful child," she says.

"What if I were a super smelly skunk, and I smelled so bad that my name was Stinky Face?" the child asks.

"Then I'd put you in a bubble bath and if you still smelled, I say, 'I love you, Stinky Face.'"

While Crowbar giggles, I always get choked up a little.

When I finished reading the book, Crowbar "read" it back to me. Seeing as he can't really read yet, he turned the pages and recalled the story from memory. Hearing him "read," "I love you my wonderful child," made me well up a little.

When he finished, I looked up at me and said,

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, Stinky Face," I said and kissed him on his head.

As I closed the door to his room, I paused for a moment and promised myself to never forget that special moment.

I love you, my wonderful child.

The Guy Likes Pie.

What can I say? My baby likes pie.

It's been a standard joke at our house that unless you have a pocket full of bacon or better yet -- a slice of pie -- Mark ain't gonna listen. So it should be no surprise that my goal-oriented husband has set out on a quest -- Pie Quest.

You can read about it here, where his journey begins.

Being the ever-supportive wife, I'm happy to help him fulfill Pie Quest in any way possible. I'll forgo cooking one night a week so he can add another notch to his Pie Quest bedpost. I'll even be the designated driver should he choose to indulge in several slices in one sitting. I'm just that kind of gal.

I guess we're just a couple of go-getters and goal setters.

So as I sit here and watch him whip up spreadsheets to determine an equitable Pie Quest Ranking System, I smile and offer encouragement.

It's good to have goals.

Proof.

I haven't gotten to the DMV or Social Security office to change my identity yet. We're waiting on the marriage licence to arrive before I can legally become Mrs. W.

Each day I optimistically check the mailbox. But the bills, catalogs and coupon mailers are all that's in there.

I can't really do anything without the certificate. I can't even change my identity at work. So in the meantime, I still answer my phone and sign my name with my old name, prompting questions from curious co-workers.

Luckily, in addition to my sparkly new wedding band, I have photographic proof that the wedding actually occurred.

Looking back, the wedding was everything I'd hoped it'd be - a celebration of love and family.

See for yourself.

Mark and Crowbar getting ready.

Ready to roll.

Me and my girls -- The Deuce (L) Mad Dog (R).

Happy family.

Happily Ever After.

It's official.

Mr. & Mrs. W.

Freaks like us.

Sometimes I marvel that Mark, a normal, well-adjusted guy would want to join the zoo that is life with Mad Dog, The Deuce, Crowbar and me.

He's got a lot going for him. A good job. Great sense of humor. Ridiculously handsome.

But then, I see how nicely he fits in around here and it all makes sense.

Anticipation

I don't know what I'm more excited for. The wedding and reception or the honeymoon.

I can't wait to marry Mark and party with my family on Saturday, but knowing the next day we're ditching the kids and hopping a jet to beautiful Marco Island, I think I'm a wee bit more excited for the vacation.

Somehow, some way, I've never ever taken an honest-to-goodness vacation getaway somewhere fun IN MY WHOLE LIFE.

As a kid, my family vacations were spent visiting relatives in Indiana. (We had great fun, but it sure wasn't Disney.)

In college, I spent every single Spring Break writing term papers and waiting tables. While my friends headed down to Daytona, I stayed behind in the dreary, gray Midwest due to lack of funds and unfair amount of homework.

And I didn't even get a decent vacation after my first walk down the aisle. Always practical, we opted to use our honeymoon funds toward a down payment on a house.

So, this vacation is definitely well earned and will certainly be greatly appreciated.

I plan to bring my camera and new netbook with me. If I have time, and an Internet connection, I hope to write a post or two and share some pictures of our adventures.

I can't think of a better way to celebrate the path we've traveled so far and to kick off a new chapter in our lives together.

This time next weekend...

I'll be:

• A Mrs.
• Kissing the kidlets goodbye.
• Leaving for a week-long honeymoon.

Holy cats!

Seriously, we're nearly all set for the wedding. We're having the reception here at our new home and we've successfully unpacked and/or hidden all remaining boxes and have confirmed the food, tent and overall logistics. The upcoming week will be spent taking care of little things and cleaning.

T-minus 6 days and counting...

Hands off, ladies. He's mine.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world. Despite being in the hospital for the majority of June, sicker than I've ever been in my life, I am blessed. Blessed with an amazing guy.

Getting sick was completely unexpected. And it came at a time when we were busy with wedding plans, settling into the new house, and transitioning the kids from school to their summertime day camp.

Oh, and laundry had piled up and we were in desperate need for a grocery store run.

As awful as I felt physically, I felt worse knowing that Mark had so much thrust on his shoulders at once. I was confident he'd handle it - he's a clever, resourceful guy - but I was concerned about all the stress he was under. The kids can be a real handful and something like a simple trip to the grocery with the crew in tow can make you want to pull your hair out.

Still, he handled it all with ease. Here's a list of some of what he did while I was down for the count:

• Rebooked all of the wedding vendors (florist, hair salon, tent rental, catering, etc.).
• Set the girls up for their first week of day camp. (Paid fees, packed lunches, bought supplies).
• Took the kids shopping for a Father's Day gift for my ex-husband AND took the kids to his house for an hour-long visit.
• Planned, purchased and prepared meals for nearly a month. (Some family members delivered home-cooked meals to help out, but Mark logged quite a few hours in the kitchen.)
• Single-handedly turned Crowbar's sour-faced morning routine into a daily gigglefest. (The boy wakes up smiling now, instead of fighting me to get out of bed.)
• Bought a fishing pole and set up a tackle box for The Deuce's fishing camp.
• Ran countless loads of laundry and made sure the kids were clean, well-dressed and warm.
• Kept the house tidy and clean.
• Trained the twins to make their lunches for day camp.
• Mowed the lawn.
• Signed several field trip permission slips and handled countless notes from teachers and camp counselors.
• Took the kids to two separate birthday parties - including buying and wrapping the gifts.
• Refereed countless fights, squabbles and arguments.

And, on top of it all, managed to come visit me in the hospital nearly every day. Oh, yeah... all while working full time.

Is there anything this guy can't do?

While I was in the hospital, several nurses asked me who was taking care of my kids for me. When I gushed about Mark and how great a job he was doing, I was told more than once that a lot of patients are filled with anxiety and dread, worrying about their kids. Some have to leave their kids with abusive spouses. Others have their kids bounced around from relative to relative - and aren't sure where they are at any given time.

I had none of that. I cried in my hospital bed, longing to be home again, but those tears weren't out of distrust or worry. They were tears of joy that I can trust Mark to handle everything. And that he could do it all so well.

I don't doubt that the last several weeks have been tough on him. But he's proved that he can not only tread water, but swim. I can tell by the way the kids respond to him now. They're all so much closer than before. They trust him more. Respect him more. Love him more.

So again I say, I am the luckiest girl in the world. I'm blessed with an amazing guy who is amazing with my kids.

Mark, I love you with all of my heart. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! I don't know what I did to deserve you.

A stranger in a not-so-strange land.

I've been sick for the last two days. I mean really sick. My whole body ached. My throat hurt and I had zero energy. It's the worst I've felt in a long time.

It's been rare that I've been rendered totally incapacitated - at least since becoming a mom. I've written before about what happens when moms get sick and how anarchy can seize the homestead in no time flat. So generally, despite how badly I feel, I don't linger in bed too long.

But this time was different. This time, Mark was here to help. He tucked me into bed and assured me he'd be able to manage.

And manage he did.

He handled pick-ups and drop-offs with ease. He made the kids a homemade dinner instead of taking the easy drive-thru route. He read bedtime stories, helped with homework and listened to nighttime prayers -- all while I lay, like a puddle in bed in a feverish, achy haze. I was only barely aware of my surroundings, but I know he refereed a good deal of mind-numbingly stupid sibling squabbles without so much as raising his voice.

What can I say? The guy is a real gem. They got along fine without me. In fact maybe even a little better without me.

When I started to emerge from my fog late yesterday afternoon, and stumbled around the house, I felt like a stranger in a not-so-strange land. Sure, it was my house, but everything was somehow different. The house felt foreign to me. I wasn't sure where things were and I had no idea what we had to eat in the pantry, fridge or freezer.

Life hadn't stopped when I hit my heating pad a day and a half earlier. It kept moving on. Dirty dishes didn't pile up. They were washed and put away. The house wasn't a cluttered mess. It was neat and tidy -- tidier than when I left it.

For a mom, little things, like not knowing if the dishwasher holds dirty or clean dishes, can feel so foreign and strange.

So today, I finally feel up to jumping back into my life. To take the reigns of this household and start driving again.

But I've got to admit, it was kind of nice to be allowed to ride in the back seat for once. Too bad I was too sick to enjoy it.

Been a little busy lately...

I realize it's been a while since my last post. Before you accuse me of being a slacker, let me assure you I had a good reason.

Two words: chest tube.

It would seem that last week sometime, one of my beloved's lungs spontaneously collapsed. Yeah, it deflated like a balloon. And when lungs spontaneously deflate (even a little bit) they don't reinflate on their own.

No sir. You need the help of a chest tube and a vacuum pump. Think Capri Sun juice pouch and vacuum cleaner. While his cardiac thoracic surgeon might take issue with my gross oversimplification, honestly, I'm really not that far off.


So, Thursday night, I rushed Mark to the ER with chest pains. Thinking he was having a heart attack, they took him immediately - even before the lady with the horrifying head wound. When they escorted me back to see him, he was hooked up to all sorts of probes and sensors. A nurse was asking him questions.

Full name?
Date of birth?
Address?
Emergency contact?

He dutifully answered each question and when she got to emergency contact, he looked at me and smiled as he gave my name and cell number. I took his hand, careful to not disturb his IV.

She continued.

Allergies to medications?
Insurance carrier?
Marital status?

She robotically read the options:

Single, divorced, married, widowed?

Mark looked at me as he answered: Single.

I leaned over and pointed to her clipboard.

Change the emergency contact to his mother, will ya?

I looked at Mark and winked.

Hey man! He said, defensively. There wasn't an option for engaged!

The nurse giggled nervously, unsure at first if we were joking or not. She quickly plowed through the remaining questions and left.

Mark spent a few days in the hospital and is now back home recovering. It was a pretty frightening experience to say the least. When you have a medical scare like that, it really makes you appreciate your loved ones more than ever.

In the end, Mark was discharged on Valentine's Day. When I got him home, I gently wrapped my arms around him to give him a little hug. It was barely even a hug actually. I was too worried about hurting him.

Mark assured me that he'd never turn down my hugs and as I gingerly reached my arms around him, he pulled me closer, tighter. And as I settled my head on his chest in perfect bliss, he made a loud THHHHHPPPPPPPT sound (like a balloon deflating).

Freak.

But that's why I love him so much.

Waiting to Exhale.

Ever since Mark moved in, I can't believe how heavily I've been sleeping. Each night, by 9 p.m., I'm dog tired. My arms and legs feel like they're made of lead and I can barely stay awake. A few mornings, I've even woke up in exactly the same position I fell asleep in. And, when my alarm goes off, I struggle to wake up and get out of bed.

This is not normal for me.

I used to go to bed by 10:30 or 11, sleep rather lightly and easily bounce out of bed by 4:15. And I didn't need quite so much coffee to get myself moving.

At first I figured that this new sleep pattern was a side effect of stress from the move. I thought that in a few nights, I'd return to normal. But it hasn't exactly played out that way. It's been almost a month and even though I'm getting more sleep, I'm still waking up groggy, yearning for more.

But then, it occurred to me. I think before Mark got here I was forced to be a light sleeper. As the only adult in a house with small children, I slept with one eye open, always able to hear every noise - every sigh, sniffle and murmur - no matter how faint. I had to be ready to hop out of bed and respond to whatever need might arise.

Now, I can share that responsibility with someone else. Mark's totally capable of hearing creaky floorboards and wild weather outside. He's as able to hear Crowbar in the hall and usher him back to bed with a drink of water as I am.

I don't have to be the sole night guardsman anymore.

I think my body knows this. I think it knows I don't have to be on high alert anymore and it's finally allowing me to fully and completely relax and get a good night's sleep. My first good, deep sleep in three years!

I can't help but think of that movie, Waiting to Exhale. In it, the characters go through a lot of drama. Eventually, as each character resolves her conflict, she lets out a big, deep exhale.

That's how I feel. Even though I didn't know it at the time, I was trudging forward, carrying the weight of my little world on my shoulders. Even though I was still managing to move forward, it was slow and laborious.

Now, as I begin to share some of that load, I'm beginning to fully realize just how heavy it is. With Mark's help, as my load lightens, I'm finally able to take a much needed rest.

With Mark here, I can finally exhale.