I’m sitting here in bed for the fourth consecutive day trying to remember what it feels like to not be so sick.
[Kicking off 2016 with whining. Fantastic.]
I’m typing this in a program called Evernote that is a great tool to organize my posts—you know, all the hundreds of them that I don’t get around to posting because I’m juggling a million things like cooking, cleaning, laundry, and homeschooling two kids while trying to keep the baby from gnawing a hole in my computer cord and GET OFF MY BACK ALREADY!
Totally kidding. Y’all are fun. I wish I had more time to tell you all our crazy antics here. But it seems like I only have time to squeeze in the moments that include vomit.
Today is no exception.
Aaaahhhhhhhh, St. Patrick’s Day. The day I remember from childhood as an excuse for all the little girls with green scrunchies and embroidered, clover jumpers to run around pinching the crap out of those of us who forgot to wear green to school.
I’m pretty sure Saint Patrick is the patron saint of mean little girls.
Does that title seem too negative? I sure hope not. It’s just that I’ve never been a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. I believe it is nothing more than a day when the candy, flower, greeting card, and tacky stuffed animal industries all conspire together to hike up the price of their products 500% and tell us all that we are thoughtless should we choose to not purchase them. Because, my fellow Americans, there is no greater symbol of love and affection than a bag full of stale, heart-shaped antacids that has been on a display shelf at Target since the day after Christmas.
Actually, I believe comedian Jim Gaffigan said it best:
“I know I make you nauseous. Here’s a TUMS with ‘hug me’ written on it.”
“I realized somebody oughtta make an alarm clock that sounds like a baby barfing. ‘Cuz you know what? There IS no snoozing’.” —Bill Engvall
I generally give you a chance to finish your breakfast burrito before I throw a vomit quote out there all willy-nilly like that, but I figured this was the best way to kick off my post-Thanksgiving wrap-up.
Get it? Burrito. Wrap-up.
[Someone get this comedic genius her own TV show.]
Last week I shared our house hunting adventures in Birmingham, Alabama, but I failed to mention that we’re already here in a corporate apartment close to Brian’s new office. We “moved out” (most of our junk is still there) of my in-laws’ place at the lake in Georgia and decided to live on top of each other in a two bedroom apartment until we close on our house. And thanks to our very nice but very close quarters, I have a whole new appreciation for parents whose children share a bedroom. Seriously, how do y’all do that?
Bedtime around here resembles feeding time in the chimpanzee cage at the zoo.
And I’m not talking about the cute, cuddly chimpanzees who will hug you and pick bugs out of your hair for you. Because those are some helpful, well-trained chimps. I’m talking about the crazy ones who plot against the zookeepers and help each other escape.
Bedtime is like a code red lockdown at the zoo.
With little more than 2 1/2 months remaining in Brian’s Air Force career, we have both been hit with the realization that this is not just a job we’re leaving. We’re not merely moving to a new city or a different house. We’re leaving behind a lifestyle. We’re saying goodbye to a community that we’ll never really be a part of again. Sure, Brian is and always will be a veteran, but there’s a different camaraderie amongst active duty service members and their families.
And while this change is 100% what we want for our marriage and for our kids, the bitter part of the bittersweetness hit us both last Friday night like a ton of bricks.
Or like 50 cannon blasts and an amazing fireworks display.
I mentioned on my various social media accounts yesterday that JJ, our 4-year-old, wished Brian a very happy “Fodder’s Day.”
It’s almost like he knew about this blog and that Brian provides me with an infinite amount of fodder for it.
I’m not gonna lie, I sometimes dry heave when I read social media anniversary updates from one spouse to another.
“Happy 4th Anniversary to my Schnookums! You are my everything. You are hotness incarnate. You are the reason I breathe. You are my oxygen.”
You are the reason I vomit.
Those who know me best know that I love surprises — both giving and receiving. Sadly, I am tragically flawed in the secret-keeping arena. If I remember to keep the surprise a secret (a BIG if), then I become too impatient to keep it. This is why Brian almost always receives his Christmas/birthday/anniversary gifts within 25 minutes of when I purchase them.