I love you like crazy. I don’t take pictures of your butt anymore but it’s still cute. I thought you should know that. Although if you decide to go on anymore ten day long trips without me and the kids I might start that habit up again.
I want you to know, that even after two kids and approximately 8.73 million moves, I would still follow you to the ends of the earth. Not just because I was trying to take photos of your rear end or even because life with you is exciting and marvelous but because I like you. You’re kind in a way that I can’t even emulate. You’re funny and understand not only me but how to poke hilarious fun at my foibles and gosh is that ever fun. But best of all, you are interesting; life with you is intricate and well thought out. I hope I get to listen to your explanations until the end of time because your thoughts fascinate me.
So cheers to another year of you. Thanks for spending it with the kids and me. Happy Birthday.
Also now seems like a good time to surprise you with this, but I accidentally painted all the couch cushions in a Pintrest gone wrong project last week. I didn’t clean them, I just flipped them over. So your birthday gift is a wet vac rental.
Because this is a small town, so your shame lives right around the corner and offers you free cheese samples at the grocery store. For those of you who missed it. I burned porkchops then the fire department showed up in their flashing lights, fifty pounds of gear and siren sounding glory on a Saturday night.I thought that was the end of things, you know except for the fact that whenever my friend Liv comes over now, my son asks when the firemen are coming. But small potatoes really in the grand scheme of I-pulled-these-innocent-and-helpful-men-away-from-their-families-and-their-dinners-for-nothing-on-a-Saturday-night.
That was until last weekend, when we were at my husband Tex’s company Christmas shindig. We sat ourselves down with his pregnant colleague so I could talk about all things Mom related. This was when I learned that Tex’s pregnant colleague’s husband, whom I was sitting directly next to, was a firefighter. My cheeks burned when I realized that he might have visited my house the previous weekend.
“Ummm” I said, swallowing the giant, flaming sword in my throat “Were you working last weekend? Because if so you came to my house and I am SO SORRY.” And then I willed the earth to open up Old Testament style and swallow me whole.
“Ohhhh!” The off duty firefighter laughed “Pork chops! I heard about you, no I wasn’t working last weekend-that was Steve.” And then it happened. I thought that I had bathed in shame, before but that was just a hint of the shame I experienced upon actually meeting a firefighter off duty.