Now that's romantic.

A few weeks ago I was chatting with some of my Monday night coworkers about romance. The only guy on the shift is a nice enough mid twenty something male who has plenty going for him but who couldn't figure out why girls seemed to shy away from him. In his mind, he was the perfect catch. That was perhaps the issue, but that's a discussion for another blog. "I'm the last of dying breed" he said to me after describing his last romantic encounter with an ex that included a bubble bath, red roses, wine, candles... you know, the whole enchilada.

I detected a distinct hint of pride when he said this, though I think he felt it churlish to really brag. He was after all surrounded by two married stay at home moms and a high school junior who was about to break it off with her long time "bf". We were clearly not the ones he wanted to impress with this statement.

For some reason this 3 minute long conversation has kind of stuck on rewind in my brain for the last few weeks. Perhaps it is because with Valentines Day rapidly approaching, pop culture has been pretty saturated with mush. At any rate, it instigated a good deal of reflection on my part. Mostly when I was in the shower, because the water drowns out the sound of my children screaming at me.

When was the last time my husband drew me a bath or bought me roses or even lit a candle? See, the truth is, I don't particularly care for baths in our tub- the paint is all chippy and though we have plans to renovate our bathroom after we get our tax refund, life is unpredictable. And I actually don't like roses. At all. Especially red ones. I do like candles, but I prefer ones that smell like apples or pumpkin or baking cookies and my spring fever is not really conducive to that... Mike likes evergreen scented ones. Same deal applies.

I racked my brain for the last truly romantic gesture my husband did for me, but the fact of the matter is, we just don't do stereotypical romance. For some reason, whether due to the fact that we're just more creative then that, or maybe just that we're poor, we've strayed from the social norm. So when girls look at me all sympathetic-like when I confess that my husband has never in our 10+ years of knowing each other, taken me to an uber fancy shmancy restaurant with food I can't pronounce and that probably has mushrooms in it, while playing Boccelli and presenting me with expensive jewelry...

It kind of irritates me. I get all defensive. I mean, we're just not like that. So he hasn't taken me to any swanky restaurant downtown ever. When we were in college, he planned a picnic on my dorm room floor. With no fungus, thanks very much. And while I'm cool with the classical vocal standards, my man is a bit more punk and country than that. In fact, while on vacation with his family a few years back, he sang Brad Paisley's Mud on the Tires at karaoke night, dedicating it to me. Sober. It still makes me smile all stupid when I think of it. He saved an entire summer working 13 hour days with the park district (not an easy feat, mind you) to buy my beautiful engagement ring and band. Maybe I don't get diamonds for "push presents" or random anniversaries, but once he went to a silent auction for his work and the ladies all convinced him to bid on a pearl necklace for me. The proud look on his face when he came home with such a classy gift was worth every penny.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a sucker for romance. I've read every work of Austen several times through. I watch reruns of The Office just to relive the Jim and Pam saga over and over. I wait in long lines with spastic tweens come opening night of each of the Twilight releases. I bought conversation hearts even though I don't really like the taste. But for all the stock that I put in romantic words and gestures, I don't remember a single word of Mike's speech when he proposed. Not one word. I do remember however, that he asked both of my dads and my mom for permission to propose in the first place. Because he knew it meant a lot to me.

And that's really it, isn't it? He knows what is important to me and he strives for that each and every day. He loves our children without abandon, even when they screech and scream and interrupt our Valentines dinner plans. He shovels the end of our driveway because even though I probably can get out, he knows I'm too nervous to try. He doesn't pout and complain when I fall asleep early. He compliments my cooking even though we both know its far below par most nights. He tells me I'm still "hot" even though I've had two babies in two years and my belly is stretched beyond appropriate bikini use. He still kisses me to distraction and he still makes me want to be a better wife for him.

So there. I have to disagree with my coworker friend. He's not the last of a dying breed; maybe just the last of a different one. One that I don't want to be a part of anyway.

Happy Valentines day, dear readers and friends and a very happy Valentines day to you, Mike. Infinity times three.

All Before 9 am

This morning started off pretty well. I had noticed last week that staying home with my kids has this phenomenom of causing all the days to run together in one giant blurry Woodstock-worthy haze. That, coupled with the fact that I am currently working through my weekends at "The Bridge" lent to my decision that Thursday is the new Sunday where this Mom is concerned.

So I made the rule of "no real clothes"- we would wear our pjs all day long. And we'd eat a real breakfast that I actually cooked, rather than just toasted or microwaved. Just like regular folks do on a real weekend. Jonah and I had decided on scrambled eggs with cheese and toast with jelly; A gourmet chef I do not claim to be, afterall.

I took out the ingredients but noticed that there was a pretty sizable stack of the previous night's dishes taking over my counter space so I went to tackle those first. Jonah requested The Artistocats as his morning-mommy-making breakfast-movie (I never said I was mom of the year- my kids will be familiar with Disney classics and I'm not ashamed to say it. At least its better then the ginormous purple dino that should remain ever nameless on this blog). I set him up with his dvd and took to the dishes to task.

That was my first mistake. My boy doesn't like to wait. Within seconds I hear a rustling in the living room. I quickly ran in and saw Megan licking a butter wrapper like it was the last popsicle in the ice cream truck in the midle of July. My son? Well this is what I found...

"Yeah butter!" Really. That's what he said to me. "Yeah butter!" Like he was butter's own personal Cheerio. (That's a Glee shout out, just in case you didn't catch it.) Ewwwww. Ew.

Then, just cause its gonna be that kind of day... as I'm placing the butter in a dish to deal with later, I hear a shatter. An enormous shatter. Like a shatter I've never ecountered before. Man do those glass pirex bowles shatter. There was glass in Wyatt's kennel, behind our trash, somehow it hopped on the counter... incredible. It was a glassplosion.

And then just a teenie tiny "Oopsies, Mommy." Yeah. Oopsies.

This is post clean up... I figured risking the safety of my family in order to take a live action shot for my blog probably wasn't kosher with the DCFS folks.

Finally, hurricane Jonah was cleaned up, the dishes were hastily finished and I was getting my ingredients together again. Eggs. "Mommy eggs." That's right, my smart boy, Eggs. Where were my eggs?

He hands me two, but there were three in the carton. Where of where did that egg get to?

I'll tell you where.

In case you don't have the decor in my home memorized (for shame!), that's my couch. With egg yolks on it.

All before 9 am.

Cereal never treated me this bad. Just saying.

Snow day

"Hey Jonah, tell your mommy that you want to shovel the driveway today."

That's how it began. Smirking as he walked out the door this morning, my husband knew he had planted the seed. The seed of hope in my almost two year old son, but also the seed of guilt in me. He was heading out to work despite the epic blizzard of the century that is supposed to hit this afternoon and I was staying home all cushy and cozy in my pjs and slippers.

I told myself it was silly to even shovel the 2.5 inches on our driveway, when in the grand scheme of things, they are calling for over a foot of snow in the next twenty four hours. I said to myself "Alice is sleeping, and you really can't leave her in the house." I thought about the insane amount of time it takes to get Jonah dressed in all his heavy layers. I thought about the fact that we only have one shovel and I would likely spend all that time out there fighting with Jonah over it.

But then another thought occurred to me. This may be a great way to tire that boy out for a nice loooong nap. Maybe just maybe the universe would align and for once when Jonah goes down for his nap, Alice won't wake up immediately. Maybe I would get a chance to shower. Really shower. Like shave my legs and get all the suds out and everything!

So with dreams of my shower to cheer me on, I gathered up the snow gear scattered throughout our little house. All in all, it took only about ten minutes, which is actually not too bad. I kept Jonah's footie pjs on, to speed things along and despite his best efforts each time I opened my bedroom door, he was not successful in waking his baby sister.

I grabbed a broom, hopeful that it might deter my son from a shovel tug-o-war and we headed out. Within seconds Jonah face planted in the snow. On purpose. He repeated this action with a giant silly grin on his face until suddenly he got to be less and less enthusiastic. Until he actually started crying. Snow is darn cold, afterall. Try as I might, I have thus far been unsucessful in communicating this to my boy.

I shoveled my little heart out, but I had only cleared our tiny porch at this point and being that I barely made it 3 minutes, I was not ready to give in so easily. I ran inside for another pair of mittens, strapped them on his red little fingers and we pressed on.

My dear child decided to take a little hike around the perimeter of the yard. I was working around our car when I heard his cries. He had somehow managed to burrow himself into the little drainage ditch at the end of our driveway. Once more, I picked him up, brushed him off and fetched yet another pair of mittens for his now purple fingers. Again, I began to shovel.

I was heading towards the end of our drive when he cried out again; this time even more pitifully then before. I rushed toward his voice only to to stopped short by the sight of my son army crawling towards my husband's boat with all the fervor and desperation of a boy lost in a desert who had spotted an oasis. "Mooooommmmy! I want the boat! Mooooommy! Boooooooat!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Of course. A boat is exactly the kind of thing that will save you in a situation like this.

He is so his father's son.

I fetched him again, got yet another pair of mittens, which I strapped to his purple and shaking little figners, and finished the driveway wtihout incident. He forgot his need for some time on the high seas and was content to pretend to shovel with his mother for a while and as I am writing this, we are safe and warm inside, though he is refusing to let me take off his coat, boots or snow pants still.

He keeps saying "Mommy, I want to go outside."

Oh heck no. We're good till spring.