With all the uncertainties in my life, I take comfort in knowing this one small but unwavering truth:
Any given member of my family, at any given time, will cut a bitch for an extra slice of bacon.
We were out to breakfast last weekend when Jack decided to commandeer Peyton’s plate and score himself a piece of her bacon, having already inhaled his own. When she rather loudly demanded it’s return (thank God we weren’t dining at the Ritz,) my charming son ran his tongue along the entire piece - lengthwise - and held it out to her while wearing a big, greasy, shit-eating grin. She shot him a look of a thousand daggers, then turned to me and said, “I wish I was an only child.” My husband joked that he wished for zero children, which made both kids gasp in mock horror, and I snarkily joked that if it weren’t for our little criminals, I don’t think we’d still be married. Derek dismissed this claim by saying he was too irresistible too pass up. I thought about that a little later in the afternoon.
Would we still be married if we didn’t have kids?
My husband snores. Loudly. He leaves the cap open on everything from toothpaste to baby wipes until they are dried out and useless. For some reason, if he’s cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, he doesn’t think it’s necessary to wipe down the countertop, usually leaving a sticky, crummy mess. He orders an inordinate amount of comic book action figures (don’t call ‘em dolls!) from eBay and is much more fastidious about his comic book collection than our current household budget. Also, the majority of our social planning MUST adhere to the itinerary of his colon.
Derek is also responsible for the waste management duties in our household (isn’t every husband?) Only he seems to be afflicted with that rare - and sometimes fatal - condition known as rubbish blindness. Every night, I must don my satin pantaloons, trumpet in hand, and declare, “The garbage is spilling over!” before any action is taken.
BUT, this is also the same man that used to read Peyton her Sesame Street book in a Grover voice when he thought I couldn’t hear him. This man has run to the 24-hour pharmacy at 3 a.m. because Jack has woken up with a fever and we were out of Children’s Motrin without a word of complaint. He is the *vomit concierge* because he knows that I would rather put my eye out with a fork than clean that shit. And he held my hair during my many bouts of morning sickness (if you define morning as all day.)
In the summer of 2008, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Worst. Day. Ever. Derek was home with the kids when they told me, so by the time he got to the hospital, I thought I had my shit together enough to be able to explain my diagnosis, and maybe make a pithy joke about the no refund policy on brides after the first eight years.
Instead I dissolved into a puddle of tears.
Turns out, the neurologist had already spoken to him before he got to my room, and the only thing he said was, “We’re in this together. And I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Derek and I just celebrated eleven years of marriage last Friday. Yes, we were married on April Fools’ Day. Twelve years ago, after Derek proposed that we put up with each others’ crap ‘til death do us part, we perused the calendar for an appropriate date. April Fool’s Day falls on a Saturday? Sign us up! The fact that we were both excited to gather our family and friends together on this particular day to share our vows and celebrate our beginning speaks volumes on how we conduct our union. Because really, if you can’t laugh at yourselves, you might cry.
Now, where did I put my trumpet?