Tips to Look After Your Husband, 2018.

A friend of mine shared this amazing picture with me, and, I mean, the parallels to my happy home just abound.

Have Dinner Ready

I mean, ready is a strong word. I like to have some part of the meat (maybe? maybe we’re being “healthy” [read:lazy/poor] that night and going vegetarian) at least sort of cooking. Or in the fridge. Or at least in the car from the grocery store.

Listeria? Pssh. It’s fine. It’s Wisconsin. You can leave stuff out for awhile.

I feel like he definitely knows I’ve been thinking of him when he sees the hastily scrawled “Taco Tuesday” thing on the menu board. (Taco Tuesday is not a thing. It will never be a thing. I need to stop trying to make it a thing.)

Prepare Yourself

Guys, this lady suggests only 15 minutes. I like to have a breakdown around 1:30, put everyone in their rooms, and pass out face first in a pillow for an hour or two. I find the pillow wrinkles and runny  mascara to be a super sexy look. Sometimes I even brush my teeth when I get up. I know. We’ve still got it.

And I’m not messing around with any ribbon. My husband is a chemical engineer at a food ingredient plant. As long as I’m not wearing work boots and literally covered in meat products I’m the sexiest thing he’s seen all day.

Clear Away the Clutter

I totally run through the house frantically tying my hair bow and dusting before my husband gets home. I even do one better. I hide all the Target things I’ve purchased that day too, natch.

Prepare the Children

My husband’s little treasures are currently naked inside Snuggy Tails and coloring on the floor. I haven’t wiped the donut residue that their grandparents left yet and the boy smells suuuuuper funky. So…

Minimalize All Noise

I like to bind and gag the children before he gets home. There’s none of that pesky noise then.

Some Don’ts

Screaming “STOP IT I SAID STOP HITTING YOUR SISTER I WILL TAKE ALL THE THINGS AWAY!!!” isn’t relaxing? What?

And yes, I’m sure he’s been through some crap today. But was it literal crap? On his literal person? No? Then come talk to me after a glass of wine.

Make Him Comfortable

Ahahhahahahhah a lie down ahahhahahhahaha soft soothing tones ahahhahahahahhahaha I’m sorry I can’t this is just too much ahahahahahahahhhahahha.

Listen to Him

“Darling, let me listen to your day…ah cool. Okay. So the doctor called and I switched their appointments and I figured out who is going to watch the kids and did you do the Amazon order and I have to be gone on Thursday night so I’ve got a girl coming for an hour and did you get that present? No it’s fine I’ll do it. STOP HITTING YOUR SISTER. Okay let’s eat we’ve got stuff to do.”

 

Make the Evening His

So…making him make me a drink and watch figure skating is off the table?

The Goal

To make it through another day. Good job, Buddy. Fist bump. It’s phase two.

Catholic Sistas Post: Talk to Your Mother

So I’m super honored and happy to be able to write for the amazing Catholic women’s blog Catholic Sistas. Here is my post from this month

On a beautiful crisp morning, my family and I were heading to the Marian shrine to Our Lady of Good Help in northern Wisconsin. It was Saturday, there was a wide-open expressway in front of us, and we had about an hour and a half to go. Both kids were strapped in their car seats (read: contained and not able to destroy our plans quite as easily.)

“Hey! Let’s say a rosary on our way up! That’s a good way to prepare for the shrine,” I suggested cheerily, turning down the music.

My husband looked at me like I had suggested he pull over and take a few shots of whiskey. “No! I can’t do that! I’m DRIVING!”

Read the rest here.

Oil Me Up

I am not terribly natural. I’m mostly a ball of stress and caffeine getting through the day on lorazepam and Advil until nighttime and my lover Unisom comes to call. (We’ve been together since my pregnancy with Joey, but he still gets me into bed every night.)

I asked my OB if I could have an epidural at the curbside when I got to the hospital.

I have a patented cold cocktail of drugs that I take every time my nose starts to itch and yeah okay I’ll probably die of an ulcer, but it’s like my sinuses don’t even exist anymore! Yay!

I don’t like feeling..well…much of anything, and certainly nothing unpleasant.

And I tend to think that the best ways to get through those feelings are chemicals. Tasty tasty chemicals that they put into pill forms and I can wash down with a glass of white wine from Aldi.

(I’m KIDDING. I don’t have a problem.)

(Except that I only buy my wine from Aldi.)

So I am not crunchy. I’m the opposite of crunchy. I’m like a barely cooked chocolate chip cookie, which is oddly also how I make my chocolate chip cookies. (Or Seared Dough Balls, as my loving husband calls them.)

I have heard people tell of essential oils and their benefits. My sister loves them. A bunch of people I love and respect love them. I was sure they were lovely, but why am I gonna fool around with lavender and witch hazel when I have a perfectly good analgesic RIGHT HERE y’all. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Well, last week, I was desperate. I went to Dermy for the most hallowed of traditions for the Irish, right up there after Holy Mass and dinner with mam…the shave biopsy.

(Pasty girls say hey!)

Anyway, it wasn’t healing the way it should because I’m a bleeder and have awful skin and my bra was rubbing on it and wow, you do not need to know all this stuff about a random part of my side. But it was PAINFUL. And even more painful, I was thinking I was going to have to go back to the doctor to see what to do about it and then I’d have to drop the kids off and take a shower and make an appointment and ugh, I’d rather die of sepsis.

So I was whining about this to my sister, because at approximately 50 weeks pregnant and mother to the most…um…high maintenance toddler on the planet, she really needs to hear about how my bra is bugging me because it’s rubbing a cut under my arm. I don’t know why she likes hanging out with me.

And she was like, “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Ugh. I know. I have to go to the doctor.

“Oils.”

Ugh. Worse.

But again, desperate. So I let her mix me up a little jar of something and something that smells like incense during Holy Week and I slathered it all over my weeping wound and went to bed like, “Hah! I’ll show her. This is ridiculous.”

And damned if the thing wasn’t, like, healed by the morning. And the secondary wounds that the bandaids gave me (because I have super sensitive pale skin, just to up the sexy quotient) were totally gone too.

So it took me like twelve hours to be converted to essential oils.

I was like scanning my body, looking for things to oil. I considered throwing away my Mucinex for a bottle of coconut oil and something. I put it on cold sores and eczema and that weird crusty spot on my scalp and…ugh oh man, I’m all about the essential oils.

Ugh. My sister was right. Again.

I should give Poldark another chance.

Catholic Sistas Post- Practicing NFP

So I’m super honored and happy to be able to write for the amazing Catholic women’s blog Catholic Sistas. Here is my post from this month. 

For a long time, I did not understand why the Church would put so much upon us. I waited to be intimate with my husband until we were married. And now because of medical issues I can’t even have sex when I want to now that I am married? That hardly seems sporting. I was whining about this in confession once, and a priest friend told me that obedience always precedes understanding.

That made sense. I did not like it, but it made sense.

Read the rest here.

Eight

Dear Eva,

Tomorrow morning when we wake up (together, as per birthday tradition in this house dictates,) you will be eight. I know, I know. I say this every year. But I seriously CANNOT BELIEVE IT. Eight is…big. I remember eight. I remember feelings from eight. I made major life decisions (hey homeschooling!) at eight. Eight is NOT A BABY ANYMORE AND THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE AS YOU ARE MY BABY.

*ahem*

Sorry.

But you’re not, you’re my big girl now. You’re in second grade. You’re learning multiplication and division and Latin and cursive and doing really well.

You are hilarious. Your grandma told you you came almost a week  before your due date, and you nodded sagely and replied, “I’m not very patient.”

You are definitely not patient. But even though I get frustrated with that, like, a lot, it’s only because you want to experience and learn as much as possible as quickly as you can.

You like to “joke.” Your idea of a joke is basically any verbal interaction where I’m not telling you to do anything. There are some mornings when we don’t have to rush and be anywhere and you follow me around saying nonsensical things while I’m getting ready, and then inevitably at some point you sigh happily and say, “I love joking days.” It makes me wish we had nothing to do at all ever except cuddle and joke and walk around the house together. That would make you so happy.

That’s all I want. For you to be happy. I know that in the long run, your eternal happiness rests in the next life with God. And you are taking great strides this year to grow in your faith. You go to confession regularly, even though I know how nervous you get before. You are making your First Communion and tell me all the time how you think you’ll feel like you can fly when you receive the Blessed Sacrament for the first time because it will be so special. You are good and loving and kind and even when it’s hard, I know you want to be the good little girl God made you.

I want you to be happy here on earth, too. I know sometimes you aren’t, and that breaks my heart. I want nothing more than for you to know peace and happiness inside yourself.

I am so lucky to be your mommy. Days like today I really think about that. Your mama only got one birthday with you- when she had you. This is the seventh I’ve had, and that’s amazing. I will never ever know what I did to deserve this gift, but I am so so thankful for every single moment I get to be your mother.

I love you, sweetie.

Love,

Mommy