If Our Neighbors Didn't Hate Us Before Tonight...

...they might now.

I could have also titled this post, My Husband is Superman, but we'll get to that later.

In the middle of preparing dinner and encouraging naked children to clothe themselves post-bathing, our house went dark and silent. The refrigerator stopped humming, the heat stopped running, dinner stopped cooking. Blackout.

Even more troubling, a quick glance out the windows showed me that we were the only house on the block that was dark. Across the street Christmas lights still twinkled, our neighbor's on both sides were all aglow. It was only us.

Now, in the past month, I have handed all bills and financial woes over to my husband. The sheer stress of trying (and failing) to balance our meager budget was making me ill. And so my very first thought upon seeing the rest of the neighborhood alit whilst I was toiling away in the dark with naked child bottoms scurrying and squealing past my legs, was that someone (not naming names here) had forgotten to pay the nice electric people their due and now we were in trouble.

Not the case. A quick call to my husband at work revealed that our account is in good order. Next thought? Did we trip the breaker or blow a fuse or whatever it's called when you have the Christmas tree, stove, lights, pellet stove, heater, dryer, etc, etc, all blowing through electricity like it's going out of style?

Husband explained where to check and how. Still black.

While we waited for him to phone the electric company, the kids and I lit candles and sang Christmas Carols. Asher, who had been slumbering when the house went dark, decided that being awake and into everything would be much more fun, especially in the dim lighting with the chance that he might, if he played his cards just right, be able to start a fire.

All this to say, my hands were full.

Turns out, there is a breaker box outside our house, the electrical people finally informed us (upon our second or third call in). I set out into the dark night and crunched over the snow crusted yard to check things out. Sure enough, there was another "Master" breaker right out there for anyone to stop by and mess with. And so, I clicked it off. Waited a beat. Clicked it back on. Turned to our house, still dark. Tried it again. And again. Nope, still dark.

Husband decided to come home from work to see if he could figure things out. Half an hour later and seven Christmas Carols down, he arrived, poked his head in the door and asked, "Did you do the box closest to the road, or the one closer to the yard?"

It was the one facing our yard, I told him.

He had tried it too before coming in. Only, he, being a guy, who likes to understand what buttons and switches and knobs do - what they connect to, how things are wired, what will be the effect of the cause, etc, etc - he was wise enough to look both ways when clicking on and off that switch. And he noticed that in our efforts, we had been actually turning OFF and ON the electricity going to our neighbors house.

Less than a minute later, he was back out by the road and had our house up and running in the flick of a switch.

In the end, the kids and I got to make candle lit memories, our neighbors probably wound up calling the electric company to complain and my kids are all further convinced that their father is a superhero, capable of all things. And I am too.

Slumber

Slumber, originally uploaded by Mellahaney.

Someday soon, there will be first steps, first falls. There will be piggy-back rides and father-son wrestling. There will be tag and catch and games of hide-and-seek played beneath the soft blankets of our bed or peeking out at the world from the crack behind the door.

There will be skinned-knees and grass stained clothes, bugs in jars, mud pies, bicycles, little league, bus stops, backpacks and book covers. The world will not wait.

But this morning, there is only this. And it's all my heart can hold.

Reason #9342 Why I Love My Husband

On the way home from an amazing event last night (a gala put on by his work), our car hit/ran over something on the highway. It lodged itself under our front right tire and smelled like burnt rubber as we pulled off the road.

Vin got out to get it out and get us up and running again. After ten minutes of him maneuvering things outside, and my carefully putting the car in reverse, he removed the object.

A Kayak of all things.

A kayak, who'd of thought? I said as we got back on the road.

I know, he said, you never expect a palindrome.

My Boys

A little shaggy, but what's not to love?

Marital Bliss

Found this original note "You Stink" above my desk the other day, and of course, responded in kind (and with a grin on my face.) You see, I'm not a romantic, flowers-on-Valentines day sort of girl. I'm a goofy-random-joking-note sort of chick. And my husband is just so sweet.

Can you feel the love?

Sweet Baby Girl, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

I haven't called the preschool yet, even though I told them I would get back to them on Monday to set up a tour of their facilities. I'd like to say that it's because I've been terribly busy and far to involved in more important things to invest the ten minutes of my time that it would take to pick up the phone and dial the number.

But that wouldn't be true. I've done a few things. Babysitting here, cleaning there, snapping pictures of my kids like I'm the paparazzi desperate for the money shot, cooking, cleaning, nothing too out of the usual. Though our dishwasher did break and that did mean that I had to take an additional chunk of my day to wash and dry and put away dishes. It's my least favorite of all chores. There's just something so icky to me about reaching my hands beneath a layer of bubbles and pulling out a sponge or cloth and using it to scrub dried food from people's plates. Trying to clean between the prongs of forks, feeling for any residual caked on food with slipper fingertips. Blech. No thank you.

When we found that the new washer wouldn't be here for two days - I actually asked my husband (like some sort of pampered heiress) "Two days? What are we supposed to do?"

Go ahead, roll your eyes at me. He did too.

Thankfully, I was out of the house today and didn't need to wash a single oatmeal crusted bowl or sticky child-sized spork. Instead, I was at my parents house (oddly enough, also without a dishwasher) where I spent the day with my nephew. And despite being indoors with two three year-olds, a toddler, a cat and a sweatsuit clad Grampy (working from home) - things went surprisingly smooth. The kids listened, the cat slept and my father struck the perfect balance of working and visiting.

And when I walked through the door at 9:30 tonight, there was a sparkly new dishwasher running quietly in my kitchen and a sweet husband who had worked a ten hour day, then came home to install it right away so that tomorrow I wouldn't have to run my fingers over dried on bits of noodles or rice on any of our Fiestaware.

Happy day. Happy night. Hopefully a phone call to the nursery school tomorrow. And maybe even some writing...wouldn't that be great?

Happy Day!

In the past week I have nibbled the dark chocolate off of no less than fifty miniature York Peppermint Patties and then wrapped the white centers back in their silver wrappers and stuffed them in my coat pockets (until I could get home and dispose of them properly...because I was driving in the car while doing this, mind you.)

Apparently, this is what I do when I'm overtired, overworked, stressed and PMS'ing.

Thankfully, I have tonight off of work. My hormonal rage is subsiding and my stress is lowering by the second. Today is a good day. Not just an ordinary sort of sun's out and the sky is clear kind of day - no this is a Who Needs Chocolate? kind of good day. A My Husband Just Got A Good Job, kind of day.

That's right ladies and gentlemen, I'm officially stepping down as bread winner. (And there was much rejoicing...)

Not only is his new job a step up in the hospitality field, but it's about fifteen miles closer to home and no longer in another state (that has been stealing pieces of his paycheck for the past three years, even though we haven't lived there...)

All around, today is something to smile about.

In fact. It's something to pack up and finish your work day early about. So that's what I'm going to do.

Go home. Shower my loved ones with love and just be happy.

It's been while.

This-Is-Why-We're-Together

Very late last night, actually, early this morning, the most phenomenal thing happened.

My husband and I laid in bed - talking.

Not the routine conversations. Not about The Boss's verbal development, or the latest story of his time spent in time out, or of Lila's latest feat (clapping her hands, by the way) - but real, this-is-why-we're-together conversations. About us, about life in general, from the grand-scheme of things, to the minutia of worries that run in laps around my brain. I don't think we actually stopped talking, both just drifted off to sleep - wrapped in the comfort of connectedness that can't be found simply by cuddling beside one another on a couch.

It was his day, Father's Day - but it felt like I was the one with the sweetest gift of all. Him.

Geek Love

My husband and I are geeks. Case in point, we watch the National Spelling Bee and root for contestants as though cheering on teams in a Superbowl.





Last night, I quizzed my husband on completely absurd and wonderful words from these new books I received in the mail yesterday. The Gilded Tongue provides language(s) of origin, parts of speech as well as uses in sentences - which meant that my husband could ask questions about the words, just as they do on the Spelling Bee. He did quite well, actually, closing his eyes and spelling the words out on his palm. Meanwhile, I sat and flipped through the books, just reveling in the abundance of words.

Fun, interesting, bizarre bits of language, oddly ordinary in their meanings. Or, as the subtitle of The Gilded Tongue suggests, Overly Eloquent Words for Everyday Things.

They're fantastic.

(You know, if you enjoy indulging your inner geek as much as I do.)

Husband

He wakes up on weekend mornings, groggily pulls on a t-shirt, shorts, and then picks up the baby and leaves me to a silent bedroom. He opens the door to our son's room, releasing the hurricane that blows all thoughts of sleep and warm beds and coziness away. He feeds the hurricane, changes diapers, does laundry, picks up stray Cheerio's, runs the dishwasher, wipes down counters and sinks and then feeds the baby and plays with The Boss.

He wrestles with our little force of nature and cradles our littlest one in the crook of his arm. He's quick to offer high-five's of encouragement but also goes toe to toe with the difficult task of discipline when it's needed - when our son is kicking and writhing and yelling for just one more book before light's out (even though, he has already been read four or five.)

He is the type of father I might have liked for myself. The type of father who will instill a healthy blend of confidence and goofy humility. Who carefully walks the balance between tousling hair, saying "Shake it off Kiddo" and scooping the child up in his arms and letting him rest and recover on his shoulder.

I'm not saying, of course, that he isn't flawed (because who isn't?) - but his very nature is that of a family-man. A man who grew up wanting only this - to be a husband and father, and the rest - jobs, cars, houses? All details - blurs whizzing by in the peripheral.

I'm struck by this because there were times growing up, when I felt as though I was in the peripheral of my own father's vision.

My father loves in different ways than my husband. He shows affection by giving gifts, in working hard to earn the money to pay for the gifts. He understands people on a more tactile, 'what's wrong - and how can I fix it' sort of way. And I often felt like a problem to be fixed, rather than an individual to be encouraged.

I won't go on to depict my father as a sort of villain, which he wasn't. But I will say, that this man that I married - I appreciate him even more, having come from the household that I did. Having come from tense Saturday mornings of to-do lists and nagging and shouting matches - it's nice to be given this gift of a couple more hours of sleep - and to wake up to a smiling man, playing with his children. (And, of course, the scrubbed sink doesn't hurt either...)

Ever get really bored?

Wedding Collage originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

And then start going through your drawers, just desperate to find something to do?

We've been married almost five years, and I still haven't organized any of my wedding pictures, or bothered to put them in an album. So, today, I spread them out all over the room and started trying to arrange them. Then, I thought about how much I wished that digital camera's had been a little more "in" back when we got married - or that I had a scanner.

Having neither digital copies or a scanner, I did the next best thing, I took pictures of the pictures. Then I went and did the honeymoon pictures too.

Most productive naptime ever, I know.

Happy Anniversary to us...

Originally my thought for the day was to post this random picture from our vacation. But as I previewed it, I realized that since today is our wedding anniversary it could be, um, misunderstood...




So, we'll go with this instead:



Our day wasn't particularly romantic. It consisted of an early morning with The Boss, a home inspection (which went well), and a lot of house work here at my parents place. Rather than go out to a fancy restaurant, we settled on a trip to the grocery store and a little time together in the kitchen (I really wish there was a way I could've video blogged the art of my husband "dicing" an onion...it was quite entertaining.) Overall, it was simply a nice day. No trip to Italy, or even Disney for that matter, but nice.

I wish I had access to my wedding albums, I would've liked to have posted a picture of us from that. Oh well, maybe in another month after we move and our belongings are no longer being stored in my in-laws basement - 30 miles from here. Instead, I made Vin take an 'arms length' picture of us to commemorate the day. It's fuzzy and we both look as sleep deprived as we are, but happy nonetheless (and, really, where on earth do my eyes go when pictures are taken?)

Reason #147 Why I Love Him

We're at the grocery store. A place we can sometimes escape to alone, it's become the equivalent to a date. Today we're shopping for guests. We're having company which obviously means, for my husband, that bad food becomes acceptable. Calories, fat, sugars - all irrelevant if consumed in a group setting.

I, on the otherhand, am anal to the core.

Case in point: There's a sale on ground turkey. Not only a sale - but the type of sale that makes us giddy. Oh, it's a BOGO (Buy-one-get-one for those of you who are still hip enough to have a life beyond grocery stores and Payless.) While my husband is preparing to snatch up a couple of packages, I'm inspecting the sale sign. Hmmmm. It appears to only be on the 93% lean meat.

It always is. They never put the 99% lean turkey on sale. I should've known this before I wheeled my carriage over in the first place. It was bound to be a let down.

Come on, Mella. The other 6% of fat is not going to kill you. My husband's pleading eyes bounce between mine and the yellow BOGO sign. His pupils eerily resemble dollar signs.

When I refuse, I brace myself for a rant about how ridiculous I am, passing up a good deal for an insignificant amount of fat (the horror!) But instead, he simply says, I wish you could see yourself how I see you. And pushes the cart down the next aisle.

Me too, Sweetheart. Me too.

Us

Your hand first held my thigh. Slid the length of my leg and rested just above the knee, before our fingers met and palms pressed. A backward introduction - legs before hands.

We were in a packed little room with a small flickering television; friends crumpled together on couches and sprawled across the floor. But we might as well have been alone, up on our couch, our bodies hidden beneath the soft warmth of a flannel blanket.

My fingertips traced the curves of your knuckles and the length of your fingers. I felt the gentle weight of your hard-skinned palm. Your hand cupped mine delicately as though I was porcelain and as fragile as the moment - the beginning of us.

Returning

We walked for hours. In the night, in the wind. Over damp roads and beneath strings of white lights. Sparkling stars, ten-feet high, dangled over intersections and lit our path as we wandered aimlessly through the city.

We slept until ten. Both days.

We bought fresh bread from a 24 hour bakery in the North End. We ate it in the morning; dipped the doughy center in a sticky sweet jar of jam and dusted the messy sheets with the crumbs.

We strolled through the Isabella StuartGardner Museum. We ooh'd and ah'ed over Rembrandt's Self Portrait. And we giggled at paintings we shouldn't have giggled at. We could have spent all day lifting the velvet sheaths and pointing at the signatures of Washington and Franklin and Marie Antoinette - hiding in glass cases, smudged with fingertip prints.

But, we had to eat.

And so we ate. We spent money we don't have, on food we normally wouldn't dare, in restaurants we never visit. And it all tasted wonderful.

In an attempt to find the fitness center in our hotel, we got locked in a staircase and felt like a sitcom couple, climbing down twelve flights of stairs - hooking tired hands on locked knobs, hoping that they might budge.

We wasted time, wandering through red-ticket stacks in bookstores. Bought books. Bought games. (All on sale, of course, of course.)

He watched bowl games while I read from my stocking-stuffer novels.

It was entirely wonderful.

Coming home now - the bills are here (and bigger.) The Boss is needy and scared to fall asleep (afraid he'll wake and find us gone - again.) And, we all go back to work in the morning. House hunting. Post-Holiday cleaning. Budget balancing. Boss-entertaining-feeding-changing-hugging-loving.

But still. It's good to be home.

This Side of Christmas

We left before sun-up; blanketed beneath a midnight blue sky. Bundled and hobbling with bags and boxes and the baby, we stuffed ourselves into the car. Fog seeped from the sides of the winding roads as we weaved our way to the highway. Seven AM and it was dreary and dead as night.

I hate this part winter. I sighed to the window, watching the wisps of fog curl in white puffs along the car. Early winter is light and hopeful. Snow is fresh and white and clean. The cold is enchanting and magical. It paints breath in delicate swirls before our eyes and daintily frosts windows with its sparkle overnight.

But this side of winter is a downward slope, moving further and further away from Christmas and twinkle of lights on new snow. This side of winter winds before me like the roads we were driving, dark and enshrouded with fog. The snow is no longer fresh and white and clean - it's brown sludge that mucks up the roads and turns the scenery into a solid mass of white and brown. The cold is no longer wistful. It's numbing and cruel and it pinches at your skin as you wait for the heat to kick on in the car.

What do you mean? My husband asked as we pulled onto the highway, leaving the fog behind. The sky ahead was lighter too, a gentle plum color. But still no sun. The days are getting longer now. We're in the upswing.

I stopped sulking for a minute and watched him. A small smile was resting on his lips as he drove - looking ahead into the lightening purple sky. He was right. We're in the upswing.

The Rescue

7:45.

The Boss and I are laying in bed nodding in and out of morning-sleep, shrugging off the day for a little while longer.

Mella? My mother's quiet voice drifts from beyond the door. Cautiously, questioning. And again. Yet a third time. As though she 's giving me time to cover up my naked body or hide whatever ungodly thing that I could be doing, behind closed doors at 7:45 in the morning.

When she finally musters the courage to peek through the door, she sees me, finger to lips - shhhhhh. The Boss stirs. I slowly wave her in, eyes remaining on the little guy. His small hand rubs the pillow then rests. Peacefully.

Do you have anything warm I can take to Vin? She whispers, already scanning the piles of clothing lined against the walls in our cluttered room.

I stare at her for a moment, my groggy mind slowly chugging into motion. Vin left for work an hour ago. Did he call and ask for clothes? Why, is it snowing? Is he out helping people move their cars? Wait...no. It's our car.

He's on the side of the road, she says, sniffing at a sweatshirt she's found atop one of the clothing heaps. Dad and I are taking care of it. She holds up the shirt and cocks her head as if the sniff wasn't enough for her to determine if it's clean or not.

I nod, it is.

8:20.

My mother has left with the sweatshirt, gloves, a muffin and her AAA card. My father was supposed to be following directly behind her with a battery and various tools and automotive supplies. Instead, he's sitting on the couch, noisily crunching his way through a bowl of Grape Nuts - lecturing me on how important it is to bring warm clothing with you in the car in the winter.

He must be freezing out there, he says, lifting his spoon at me. I nod, deciding not to mention that my husband would be warmer if his rescuer stopped eating cereal and packed up his van of tricks to help him.

9:20.

All is well. Husband is rescued, by a stranger who pulled off the highway to offer his expertise. Father doesn't even need to visit the scene. And I, armed with a steaming mug, settle in for a morning of writing.

Thank God for strangers and coffee.

The Art of Making a Squishy Face

The Boss Learns How to Make a Squishy Face:

Introduction

Interest
Exactly, how do you do that?
Like this?
Piece of Cake!

The End of What if

Two-weeks before meeting my husband, I was lying on the top-bunk in a frat house pressed between a wall and What-if. It started as two old friends, staying up late talking and drinking. Reminiscing in the fuzzy glow of a nineteen-inch television, muted on some late night talk show.

What-if and I sat; knees touching, on a lumpy and sheet-covered loveseat. He drank beer that I bought him. His unkempt roommate wandered between us throughout the night, nodding as he'd pass on his way to the mini-fridge, and then again on his way back out into the noisy hall.

As the night stretched on, What-if and I both knew that the subway was going to stop running and I'd have to spend the night, but neither of us mentioned it. We kept talking and drinking, slowly sinking together into the couch until my head was on his thin chest and our legs intertwined. Finally, we squeezed together on his twin-sized bed. He carefully slid his arm around my waist and tipped his head down, gently putting his forehead against mine, questioningly, as though asking, is this ok?

And then he kissed me.

I can't believe I'm kissing Mella. He whispered. I was flattered; he said it as though he was doing something other boy's only dreamt of. But, looking back, I know that wasn't how he meant it - because I was thinking the same thing. I can't believe I'm kissing What if...

It was all completely innocent. Clothes stayed on. Hands stayed put. It wasn't romantic, it was curious. It was years of friendship finally pushing past flirtation.

And, in the morning, What-if was gone. I woke up beside the boy who used to slide his foot over mine beneath the table and who used to strum the first few notes of Today on his guitar just to make me smile. In the sunlight, he was the same scruffy, tee shirt wearing, flirtatious friend of my adolescence.

We walked quietly to the subway and at the turnstile, he shyly kissed me goodbye. We stood silently for a moment afterward, sharing a knowing smile.

And then I rode the T home, alone.

Alone

No baby waking at five in the morning hungry for a bottle. A bed to myself. No snoring. No tugging of blankets. Just me, warm blankets and a dark room. After weeks of working long hours, this should be heavenly. I should be sleeping soundly, happily.

But I'm not.

I never sleep well when you're not around.