Birthday Surprise

When we went to bed last night, I pretended I forgot something so I could get back up while my husband was in bed. I sneaked out to the kitchen, where I had stashed some birthday decorations, and I hung a birthday banner on our fireplace mantel, slipped birthday covers over the chairs at the dining room table, and moved his wrapped presents from the guest bedroom closet to the table.

If he noticed all this activity, he was a good sport and pretended he didn’t. This morning, as soon as the alarm went off, I sang “Happy birthday” to him. Given my questionable singing skills, that was possibly not much of a gift, but he smiled and kissed me and said “Thank you” anyway.

I baked caramel-filled cupcakes with salted caramel frosting over the weekend, but for this evening’s celebration, I will stop after work and pick up a cake and some ice cream. I wish we had both taken the day off. Definitely something to consider for next year!

My husband always says that his birthday is not a big deal, and that it’s just another day. I don’t agree. He loves to make me feel special on my birthday, and I want him to feel the same way. I hope all the moving parts come together this evening to celebrate him, make him smile, and help him feel as loved and treasured as he truly is.

Skin Care

I have a co-worker who is in her 30s and who spends a lot of time at my desk, regaling me with tales of her many male suitors, seeking love life advice or just filling me in on her latest adventures. Sometimes I have to ask her to refresh my memory on which fellow she is talking about, and she giggles like I’m senile and have issues remembering, instead of her just having too many gentlemen callers for me to keep up with.

A few days ago, she was at my desk, chattering away, when she suddenly huffed and interrupted her own story to say, “I am almost 20 years younger than you, and I have more wrinkles on my face than you do.” She said it in an accusatory tone, like I was doing something deliberately to affront her.

She ended up asking what I use on my skin, and we got into a whole conversation about skin care. It’s something my mother, from whom I inherited my very fair and easily-sunburned skin, taught me at a young age, and I’m glad I listened. Sunscreen. Sunscreen. Moisturizer. And more sunscreen.

After a long and draining work week, it was a wonderful compliment to hear. I feel tired and worn out, and I know it’s showing on my face, but after her comment, I guess it’s not nearly as bad as I thought.

Still, I will be grateful to leave work today and head home. My husband and I have a busy weekend ahead of us, but it’s still a welcome break from the demands and stressors at work, which have been non-stop this week.

No matter what the weekend brings, I will make time to sit back with a face mask and just relax. Gotta keep impressing these younger co-workers, after all!

Decade

Ten years ago today, my husband and I closed on our house, picked up the keys, and drove our first truckload of boxes and furniture to our new driveway. It had been such a long process–nearly nine months of searching online, meeting with the Realtor, walking through countless houses, inspecting every inch, ruling them out one by one, until one finally stood out to us. We could picture ourselves living there. We could imagine the kids loving it there.

We unlocked the front door together on that chilly December morning and took our first step inside. Just like that, it was no longer a vacant house. It was our home.

That evening, after a long, grueling day of driving back and forth, lugging boxes, hauling furniture, transferring everything we owned to our new place, I took a break to hang our Christmas wreath. I snapped a picture of the front of the house, the empty porch. The picture is blurry, likely because I was so tired and worn out from moving all day, but I’m glad I took it. Looking at it now, I smile, remembering how terrified and excited at the same time I was about buying the house, and exhausted and sore from moving, but so damn happy too.

Before we closed on the house, I had fallen in love with an antique-looking, deep cherry wood bed that I spotted at a furniture store. It was too big to store at our old apartment, so I had to have it delivered to the house after our closing date. I still admire that bed, the dramatic, carved headboard, every time I walk into our bedroom.

I can’t believe it’s been an entire decade since move-in day. Maybe no one else celebrates the day they moved into their home, but my husband and I adore our house and put a lot of work into it, inside and out. Our tradition is to celebrate each year by adding something to the house, maybe something small, like a decoration, or plants in the yard, or something quite large, like this year: we are in the middle of tearing down the old deck and building a new one, complete with new patio furniture, solar lights on the posts, little touches to make it ours.

Tonight, I want to take a moment to step into the front yard, to stand where I was when I took that first picture of the front porch, and look back over the past 10 years and how far we have come. Here’s to another 10, then many more, of loving our home together.

Look Again

Something happened yesterday morning that really got me thinking. It was my first morning back to work after Thanksgiving break, and I was getting dressed, brushing my hair, leaning into the bathroom mirror to dab on make-up. I was tired, not ready to be finished with our break yet, and my mind was churning out non-stop, harsh commentary on my appearance.

“Do my pants feel tighter? I must have eaten too much for Thanksgiving. Pig. God, I look so tired. I look like I was dug up and reanimated this morning. Just look at the dark circles under my eyes! Worse than a raccoon! Gah, I look like crap.”

I am sure I am not the only one whose internal dialogue can get brutal, right? I sighed, wishing I could crawl back into bed instead of being seen in public, and just then my husband walked into the room.

He glanced at me, smiled, and said, “Oh, you look so good today.”

I was stunned. I actually blurted out, “I do?”

Now he looked confused, like he didn’t know what he said that was wrong. I told him I just felt like I looked awful, and he simply said, “Well, look again.”

So I did–through his eyes, as best that I could. Sure, I looked like I could use some rest, but that’s because we stayed up late every night of our break, spending as much time together as we could. And yeah, my nails are filed much shorter than I like, but that’s because the two of us not only worked in the yard as usual this past weekend, but we also demolished our deck, hauled off the old wood, and selected new boards, carrying and loading them all by ourselves.

No, I don’t look like I just stepped out of a salon or a spa. I have been too busy busting my ass, working on our home, and getting shit done. I know that one of the many things he loves about me is my willingness to leap in, get dirty, and work hard at his side, for him to have a true partner, something he hasn’t had in the past.

I’m no princess or prima donna, and it shows sometimes, like right now, with the scratches on my legs from the rose thorns in our garden, or the scrapes and spots on my hands and arms from unloading rough wood boards. My hair is in dire need of a color and cut, but I just haven’t had time, because we’ve had so much to do. Visiting the kids and helping my husband with these projects were far more important to me, and always will be.

I ended up thinking about that exchange with my husband later that day. Jeez, I really need to learn to cut myself a break! Why would I possibly pressure myself to look immaculate and energized after a busy and manual-labor-filled weekend? I am glad my husband walked in at just the right moment to place everything into perspective and deliver a crucial reality check. I am glad he sees me through the lens of love, and I am glad he is teaching me to see myself the same way, too.

Grateful

Okay, I am a few days late posting this. But I love the quote and just had to share it.

I wasn’t online the day after Thanksgiving to post this. Or the day after that. Or over the weekend. I had five days off for Thanksgiving, and it still wasn’t enough! We were so busy that the days streaked right by, like I knew they would.

We had a home filled to bursting on Thanksgiving, including two grandchildren, and I was trying to take it all in while still capturing as much as I could with pictures. It was loud. It was chaotic. And I loved it.

I was running from room to room, trying to keep up with an energetic two-year-old, while offering my help in spurts in the kitchen, where my husband was putting the finishing touches on an awesome dinner, and also hopping in and out of conversations as I passed by the kids and their significant others. I didn’t want to miss anything, with anyone.

My husband told me our Thanksgiving table setting looked like something from a magazine, which made me proud. He had helped me pick out flowers for the centerpiece, and I love how it all looked together. A pretty home makes me so happy.

During dinner, I looked around the table, watching everyone talk and eat and laugh, and I thought, this must be how my mom felt all those years, when all four of us kids were home, back at her table, joking around and carrying on–excited to have everyone there, but also knowing that soon everyone will scatter again, and grasping onto each moment and holding onto them while they were there.

I caught my husband’s eye across the table, above the colorful flowers, and felt so content and proud and loved. He was holding our youngest grandson, who is enraptured with my husband’s beard and had his fingers twined around it, like he always does. I grabbed my phone from the living room and caught a quick picture of the two of them, then a picture of the whole gang, before tossing my phone back onto the couch and sitting back down to just enjoy everyone.

We left the mess in the kitchen to relax in the living room with everyone after dinner. As people left, the crowd dwindled, and it was just our oldest son, his wife, and the youngest grandbaby, so we got on the floor and played with him. I didn’t even know my stepson’s wife was taking pictures of us, but when I saw them later, I loved them and was so grateful she took them. My hair was a mess from running around and direly needed a good brushing, but I didn’t care. I was sitting beside my husband, focused on our grandson, cooing and talking, watching him try his hardest to take a step, and I love that picture more than any perfectly posed or filtered snapshot simply because of who I was with, and the moment it captured.

After we waved good-bye to everyone in the driveway, we walked back into the house and realized that the Thanksgiving fairies had not cleaned up any of the dinner mess in the kitchen. We got to work, chatting about the day as we washed and dried dishes, wiped down counters, and swept floors.

As we snuggled up in bed that night, we were still talking about the day, the grandbabies, how good it was to see everyone. I held onto him tight, grateful for the day we met, grateful for the day we had just spent, grateful for our love, our family, our home.

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