Category Archives: Note to husband…

labor pains for the husband (more out-takes from 2012…)

More stories from the last few months…

Actual text message exchange between my husband and me, two weeks before baby H was due last October.  My husband left for work that morning hoping to finish early enough to attend T’s class picnic dinner.  I texted him that afternoon, as I was packing the picnic basket.

The exchange…

Me:  “Leaving soon.  Should I pack a sandwich for you?”

His response: “WHAT?!  Leaving for the hospital?  Are you in labor?”

My response: “Leaving for T’s picnic.”


Then, unable to resist, me again…

“But I love that you think I would be at home, with three children, in labor, needing to get to the hospital, and would stop everything to text you and see if I should pack you a sandwich.”

My husband: “Ha, Ha.  I’ll take turkey.”

In all fairness to my husband, I did have him (and myself, and my sister who was visiting and helping us) spooked, announcing on several occasions that I thought I was in labor before the actual event.  The best false alarm was when I was having contractions 4-5 minutes apart while sitting on the couch, encouraging him to pack his bag and load the car.  When he was completely ready, I got up and said we should leave as soon as I had eaten something (knowing they wouldn’t let me have anything at the hospital…)  Mid-snack, the contractions stop completely and I said, “Huh.  I think the contractions stopped!  I really do.  I think we can just go to bed.”

To which my husband replied, “You’re kidding, right?  Because it’s 10pm, and I just chugged 3 Mt. Dews!

Sheepish silence from me.

Uncontrollable laughter from my sister!

(Oh, newborn baby H, the main thing you should take from these stories is that your daddy was very, very eager to meet you.  We all were.  And you made us wait 6 days past your expected delivery date!)

Lots of Birds (and two chick-flicks)

Note to self and husband: Do not park under the tree at the northeast corner of the church parking lot.

If you can't see the image clearly, know that the car is covered in approximately 5 billion bird turds.

I decided to torture you with a close-up.

Additional note to self and husband: Next time, if the car looks like the pictures above, one of us should keep the children at a safe distance while the other moves the car to a safer space to load all the kids.  (Dibs on staying with the children, by the way.)

Note to dry cleaner: Our apologies.  Clearly, these were not healthy birds.

Note to Birds:  I believe my husband is in danger of going all “Steel Magnolias” on your tail feathers, should you leave the sanctuary of the church parking lot.

And a final note, to readers (because I can’t resist): When I asked my husband if he felt “going all ‘Steel Magnolia’ ” on the birds was too feminine a reference for his intended actions (despite the guns and firecrackers involved in that scene of the film), he said, “Isn’t ‘Steel Magnolias’ a movie?  The only part I’ve ever watched is the scene where Kathy Bates rams that convertible over and over again in the parking lot.  I didn’t even know about the birds.”  (Extra point to anyone who can name that non-Steel Magnolias movie!)

Clearly I can use whatever reference I like, as this man is in absolutely no danger of being too closely associated with chick-flicks.

These birds, on the other hand, are in more danger than they know.

a warning to my husband (re: your wife & daughters versus the perfume counter…)

I should be using the first blog post in a while to catch you up on our Christmas festivities and New Year’s resolutions.

Instead, I am using it as a warning to my husband, who will likely be headed home in about an hour.

Dear husband,

Your wife and daughters REEK (REEK!!!) of Chanel No. 5.  As you know, they have temporarily moved the public library into the local mall, which means we had to walk by the Dillard’s perfume counter en route to the books.  Your 5 year old daughter decided today was the day to ask “What’s perfume?!” and our fates were pretty much sealed after that.

A better wife might choose to use this hour to bathe the children.  But they are happily looking at their new library books, taking occasional breaks to twirl around in some sort of fanciful perfume-induced-fog.  So instead of “righting the ship”, I am using the blog as a foghorn:

Prepare yourself to tell us we smell wonderful (the girls are very excited!) and by all means, consider yourself (and your nose!) warned!


In case you hear sleigh bells this evening…

Just thought you might be interested to know that Santa shops on Craigslist and is picking up his main Christmas item for the girls as we speak

I just heard from him that after a successful purchase, he is in his sleigh on the way home.

(This is much better than the phone call I received from him during his last Craigslist holiday excursion, exactly one week ago, when he told me he was unable to pick up “attempt number 1” at this type of item – despite borrowing a larger sleigh from a Santa Nana – because it was “larger than he imagined”, might “crumple the sleigh like an accordian”, and made the Christmas tree twine he had intended to use to tie it down look like a piece of thread that would snap and send our sleigh crusher hurling down the highway.  In his words, “It would have never fit in our house.  Honestly!  I left it with the owner and still gave him $10 because I felt bad that he had to help me try to carry it to the car”.

(Whatever.  Those craigslist postings can be hard to interpret.  The picture made it look manageable!  I mean who knew you could get too much Christmas for an original asking price of $40?)

You may be wondering at this point what on earth Santa has been trying to get the girls that has caused this much drama.  Well (no surprise), it’s something dramatic people (like my daughters) will (hopefully) love.  Here’s a clue from the craigslist posting: “a WOW gift for your little dancer, singer, actor/actress”.  Another clue: retractable curtains.  And I made sure to check this time…it is significantly smaller, with dimensions perfectly appropriate for a 5 and 3 year old (and for a sleigh!).

I can’t post a picture because (1) it’s not Christmas! and (2) I haven’t seen it!   My fingers are crossed that it will be something that will suit us and inspire the kids’ creativity.  But I’m waiting, because my Santa is still on the road…

Which is worse?

Real conversation between my husband and me last Sunday, in the car, on the way to church (in low voices with the girls’ princess CD playing very loudly, i.e. I am positive the children could not hear us : )

Me:  Oh no!  The chocolate chip granola I was holding in my lap just dumped all over my seat and now I have chocolate chip granola on my [bum]!

My husband: That’s not good.

Me: And I am teaching Sunday School in the nursery today, which means I will be crawling on the floor with kids while greeting all the parents, and everyone will see chocolate chip granola marks all over my [bum].

My husband: Seriously, that’s not good.

Me: I just realized that if the granola got on my [bum], that means [bum] got on my granola!!!   Which do you think is worse?  Granola on your [bum] or [bum] on your granola?

My husband:  [thoughtful for a moment, then speaking…I love that this man considers even my inane questions very carefully]: Well, were you planning to share the granola with me?

Me: Yes.

My husband: Then I have your [bum] on my granola.  I’d say that trumps anything you have going on.


(I mean, the man has a point.)


Twice in the last month, I have awakened in the middle of the night absolutely convinced that a big spider is crawling across my husband’s pillow.

Fortunately for my husband, I am not the one in charge of smashing spiders in our family.  This means instead of grabbing a shoe and wildly pummeling his pillow (on which resides…his head), I simply wake him up at 2am by screaming at the top of my lungs…


On both occasions, my husband has jumped out of bed, turned on the insanely bright overhead light, grabbed a shoe and yelled,

“WHAT?!?!   WHERE?!?!   WHAT?!?!   WHERE?!?!”

On both occasions, I have said,

“THERE!!!!  THERE!!  I don’t know… Hmmmmm… M’ybe thr’s nt a spid… Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…”

Then I wake up the next morning with a bleary-eyed husband whose look turns to a glare when I say, “Good morning!  How did you sleep?”

To investigate the root of my night terrors (these are the things I do with my 3 minutes of daily “me time”), I looked up the meaning of spider dreams on the internet.

It turns out that spider dreams symbolize a sense of feminine power.

Interesting, right?!

Not according to my husband.

In fact, I think “ironic” is the word he used, because my feminine power dreams are about to earn me a spot on the couch, which would be ok except…

he said I have to take all the baby monitors to the couch with me…

All of a sudden, the couch is not as appealing…

Oh well, my research did reveal at least one positive thing.  My husband can console himself with the assurance that I will never dream ants are attacking.

Apparently, a dream about ants indicates that you feel your life is “too structured and orderly”.

Ha!  Even with all of my feminine power…

even when I’m channeling my inner-spiderwoman…

we all know there is no chance of that.

Flat out crazy

This is a Baby Bjorn.

The Baby Bjorn (DSC_0544)

The Baby Bjorn

It is a wonderful product for carrying infants.  T has outgrown his, so I put it in the pile of things to move to the attic.

This is the tag on the Baby Bjorn.

The tag on the Baby Bjorn (DSC_0548)

The tag on the Baby Bjorn

I read it because I thought I should probably learn how to wash the baby drool off of the Baby Bjorn before putting it in storage, lest the drooly digestive enzymes eat through the supportive material, putting future infant riders in mortal danger.

This is what I discovered on the tag…

Instructions for ironing the Baby Bjorn…  (direct quote: “Iron only at low temperature and never iron trim.”)

Seriously?  Seriously?!?!  Is everyone else ironing their Baby Bjorns?  If so, I am much farther behind than I thought and have zero interest in catching up.

And, yes, I am the mother of E, who at age 3 saw a little girl playing with a miniature ironing board and iron in a toy store and loudly asked “What is she doing?”

And, yes, I responded by waving to all the other mothers (two of whom applauded) and saying, “She’s my daughter.  Yes.  Thank you. Thank you very much”  and then taking a bow before the group.

What’s your point?

I will conclude with a question:  Does anyone think I can convince my husband that I have been spending my days ironing the Baby Bjorn, and that’s why our clothes are so wrinkly?  He’s very smart and has known me for almost a decade.

Probably not?

I’m ok with that.  I have set his expectations low enough that I imagine he will be impressed that after almost a year of carrying T in this contraption (and several years of carrying his sisters in it before that), I have finally decided to wipe off the drool.

Note to husband…


(For context, read previous 2-line post by scrolling down or clicking

Note to husband…

Sorry that I forgot to pack bread for the grown-up sandwiches we were going to assemble and eat in the car yesterday as we rushed the kids from activity to activity.  I realize that this left you with three ‘less-than-optimal’ choices: (1) hold the chicken breast covered in BBQ sauce and melted cheese in your bare hand while driving (2) use the towel (now covered in both syrup and hair) to make things less messy (good luck) or (3) skip lunch, as there is no time to hit a drive-thru before soccer.

Bon appétit!

(Have I mentioned how much I love this guy?!)