So Daddy was gonna propose to me on Saturday at my 30th birthday party. No, we aren't legally married, yet. We have dated for over 4 years and lived together for all of 2011. We know that this is what we want and what SmartyPants wants too. He is my kid with or without a marriage license and even though I don't always get credit for being the best Stepmommy in existence, I know that I am and those brief moments when someone else realizes it and recognizes me for it are simply. the. best.
So, Daddy didn't propose because he realized that I had caught on and didn't want me to know when it was coming. I even think SmartyPants knew - and managed to keep the secret. I am glad Daddy didn't propose. First of all, I really do want it to be a surprise. Second, we need to get finances under the reins a little better before we start planning a wedding. Third, WHAT THE CRAP am I gonna do when we are married?! I mean, I have been married before and it's not all that different from living together. But that was when I was literally a kid and it was just all wrong. Daddy has never lived on his own except for the military and that doesn't really count since he actually lived on a boat.
Seriously, what will I do when we are married? I really, really want to sign his last name and know that we are stuck with each other forebber and ebber. I can handle the in-laws. We have the same dreams and goals. And where we do differ, we are able to compromise easily. But I still can't let go of this sucking fear. Like, what if I screw up? What if I make this kid hate me? What if I make Daddy hate me? What do we do then? I can't ever leave Daddy and SmartyPants. Not now. I am his mama. I don't want to lose him and I love Daddy more than anyone in the history of Ever. I don't want to lose Daddy anymore than I do SmartyPants. But what if Daddy marries me and it just starts sucking for all of us and then I let everyone down? Geez, I am a wreck over this.
Guess I wont ever know till I try.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Sector secure.
Early bed time for me and Daddy last night. SmartyPants? Not so much. He was up till ten and crabby. It was thanks to the scorching heat and our less-than-capable AC. It was 87 degrees in our house yesterday evening. UGH. I can't even be mad at him for being crabby. All I ask is that we not take it out on each other. Now, stop. breathing. so. LOUD! See? I'm mature about this.
To set the scene: we have two dogs who get gated into the kitchen (doggy door lets them out as they please) and one loud-as-an-F5-tornado floor fan in the hallway to circulate the barely cooled air. Daddy got in bed a little before me and was dozing. Sometime after I dozed off, Daddy's head jerked toward the hallway, all meerkat-like. He had a terribly long, hot day at work and so I announced that I would check for the mystery sound (which I knew what the dogs being obnoxious in the kitchen. He reminded me to double check that all the doors were locked. Uh, duh. I am patrolling the house and realize that the front door was, in fact, NOT LOCKED. Oh schnitzel!
Now my heart is racing and I am on high alert. Of course, I don't want to alarm Daddy and certainly don't want to wake up SmartyPants or get the dogs riled up. So I walk around the house again, checking behind doors and double, triple checking on SmartyPants. I am sure that there is some sort of burglar/rapist/sicko hiding behind one of the doors. I even checked the pantry. A person couldn't get in there. The kid can't even fit in there. Not. the. point. Thankfully the house was free of intruders and I made my way back to bed (but not before tripping over the stupid fan).
When I got to my side of the bed, Daddy uttered a very grateful but sleepy "Thank you" when I announced the sector was secure. Still, I laid in bed for an hour running through my mind every scenario in which someone had breached our loving, safe home. I am pretty sure that no matter where I am should someone dare to break in, I can get to a weapon and go Jack Bauer on the creepo.
I have a kid to protect, ladies and gents.
To set the scene: we have two dogs who get gated into the kitchen (doggy door lets them out as they please) and one loud-as-an-F5-tornado floor fan in the hallway to circulate the barely cooled air. Daddy got in bed a little before me and was dozing. Sometime after I dozed off, Daddy's head jerked toward the hallway, all meerkat-like. He had a terribly long, hot day at work and so I announced that I would check for the mystery sound (which I knew what the dogs being obnoxious in the kitchen. He reminded me to double check that all the doors were locked. Uh, duh. I am patrolling the house and realize that the front door was, in fact, NOT LOCKED. Oh schnitzel!
Now my heart is racing and I am on high alert. Of course, I don't want to alarm Daddy and certainly don't want to wake up SmartyPants or get the dogs riled up. So I walk around the house again, checking behind doors and double, triple checking on SmartyPants. I am sure that there is some sort of burglar/rapist/sicko hiding behind one of the doors. I even checked the pantry. A person couldn't get in there. The kid can't even fit in there. Not. the. point. Thankfully the house was free of intruders and I made my way back to bed (but not before tripping over the stupid fan).
When I got to my side of the bed, Daddy uttered a very grateful but sleepy "Thank you" when I announced the sector was secure. Still, I laid in bed for an hour running through my mind every scenario in which someone had breached our loving, safe home. I am pretty sure that no matter where I am should someone dare to break in, I can get to a weapon and go Jack Bauer on the creepo.
I have a kid to protect, ladies and gents.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Wit: genetics or learned?
We took SmartyPants to Daddy's parent's house Saturday night to do a family sleepover. What this means is that Daddy's parents got suckered into babysitting three of their other grandchildren and they needed back up. Cool! We got this. Oh, I forgot to pack the duct tape? Crap.
After an evening of watering and feeding four maniac critter-children and forcing them to play in the sweltering Oklahoma evening heat (so as to tire them thoroughly) we started bath time and made a fluffy community pallet for sleeping on the living room floor. As the evening was winding down and Harry Potter was droning in the distance, hysteria erupted.
Grams bought a gaudy plastic ramp with fake mud pits and suck built right into it. Said ramp came with a monster truck. The eldest grandchild is nearly ten and a girl and entirely uninterested in this awful toy. The three boys, however, are completely interested in this awful toy. And of course, there is only one monster truck and a bunch of stupid micro machines that wont even go down the ramp. So, who wants the monster truck the most? All of the boys. Ugh! After a little screaming, some fit throwing and a snap-decision by yours truly, the monster truck was given to SmartyPants (he was the last one seen with unchallenged possession, therefore it must have been snatched by one of the other two in order to instigate such a ruckus). Upon announcing my decision and being received by groans and whines, I state (loudly) "I am sick sick and tired of that dumb truck! I am going to pull the tires off of it and throw it away!"
To which SmartyPants says (with a smirk) "You're sick and tired of it? You wanna pull off it's tires? Get it? Tired, tires?" And then he laughs like a lunatic. I think he gets it from me.
After an evening of watering and feeding four maniac critter-children and forcing them to play in the sweltering Oklahoma evening heat (so as to tire them thoroughly) we started bath time and made a fluffy community pallet for sleeping on the living room floor. As the evening was winding down and Harry Potter was droning in the distance, hysteria erupted.
Grams bought a gaudy plastic ramp with fake mud pits and suck built right into it. Said ramp came with a monster truck. The eldest grandchild is nearly ten and a girl and entirely uninterested in this awful toy. The three boys, however, are completely interested in this awful toy. And of course, there is only one monster truck and a bunch of stupid micro machines that wont even go down the ramp. So, who wants the monster truck the most? All of the boys. Ugh! After a little screaming, some fit throwing and a snap-decision by yours truly, the monster truck was given to SmartyPants (he was the last one seen with unchallenged possession, therefore it must have been snatched by one of the other two in order to instigate such a ruckus). Upon announcing my decision and being received by groans and whines, I state (loudly) "I am sick sick and tired of that dumb truck! I am going to pull the tires off of it and throw it away!"
To which SmartyPants says (with a smirk) "You're sick and tired of it? You wanna pull off it's tires? Get it? Tired, tires?" And then he laughs like a lunatic. I think he gets it from me.
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