50 Shades of Romance

I have a confession, and it's a doozy. I have two English degrees. I spent a number of years learning to write, and I still find more than a small amount of entertainment in diagramming sentences. And yet, I did it. I confess. I read 50 Shades of Grey. 

It gets worse.

I read all three of the books.

Call me an optimist. I really thought the second book had to be better than the first, and surely, the third must be better than the second. I was wrong.

For the blessedly uninitiated, the plain (ahem) vanilla version of the story is this: Girl meets boy. Boy pursues girl. Girl and boy fall in love. Girl discovers boy is astonishingly wealthy. Girl and boy fall out of love. And in love. And out of love. And in love. Etcetera, so forth and so on, until they get married and live happily ever after.

The story is romantic, I suppose. But what struck me in this season of pink hearts, red roses, and chocolates was that I didn't find the grand romantic gestures in the books to be the most appealing. Do I envy the European honeymoon? Or the lavishly expensive designer gowns? Perhaps. But not as much as I envy Mrs. Jones.

Who is Mrs. Jones?

She's Rich Boy's housekeeper. She vacuums. She grocery shops. She cooks--except on the weekends, of course.  And, be still my beating heart, she does laundry; she washes their clothes, folds them, and brings them back, clean and smelling like lilacs by morning. Take notes Lothario, because after age 30, romance takes on a whole new meaning.

No longer is romance defined by the number of roses that grace my desk or the glass(es) of wine drunk on a late night dinner date. You want romance? Show me an empty laundry hamper and drawers lined with fresh stacks of crisply folded t-shirts. Box of chocolates? Sure, but only if they're served on freshly Windex-ed counter tops.

We celebrated Valentine's Day with a red vinyl tablecloth, roses, pizza, and the two small ones. It was a good day. Romantic? Absolutely. Because, after the pizza was eaten, baths were taken, and toddler cheeks were kissed soundly goodnight, I came downstairs to discover an empty sink, wiped counters, and, be still my beating heart, a freshly swept floor.

Romance, it seems, has more than 50 shades. Dr. Gary Chapman speaks of the five love languages, of which, acts of service is one.  Romance can be flowers, chocolates, European honeymoons, and lavishly expensive designer gowns. More realistically in this time of our lives when we spend more hours a day wiping noses and bottoms than we spend talking to each other, romance is found in those little acts--clean socks, smooth sheets at bedtime, a re-filled coffee canister, or a freshly stocked refrigerator.

A dozen yellow roses brighten the mornings in my kitchen this week.  I've eaten more than my share of Hershey's. And I'm grateful for those little celebrations. But in this lovely month of February, and these days year round, I'm finding my romance in newly vacuumed shag carpet, a sandwich that I didn't make myself, homemade s'mores, and a glass of wine that didn't require that I put on shoes to go out.

(And, because I'm a mom, here are some Valentine's pictures of my kids.)

This is where she spent most of her time during her bubby's party. Siblings weren't invited, but she didn't seem to mind. 

Valentine's cupcakes are the best kind.

She sneaked in and stole a few crackers when he wasn't watching.

But we made her earn her keep. She's a good little helper.

Valentine's Day was always one of my favorites in school. There's candy, and a party, and everyone gives you a card that tells you you're special. I think he felt pretty special too. 

Bits, Pieces, and A Smidge of Mommy Pride

Yikes! Has it really been almost two weeks since I updated? I've really been letting myself go these days. I go to the library. I go to the gym. I go to the car pool line. And then suddenly, I go, "Oops!" Because, as busy as I get (and busy is good), there are still little tiny moments that I simply can't forget. So, if you're reading this, I do apologize, because today, I can't offer any wisdom or insight. Today, I'm just an ordinary mom trying to memorialize ordinary moments. 

Every week, we go to swim lessons. Actually, we go twice a week. I'm kind of hardcore when it comes to swimming these days. And, every week, they stop on this bench and ask me to take their picture. They love it, except when Gigi poops in the pool (which is far too often). But the successes are unmitigated: last week, on an ordinary Thursday night, my little boy did an extraordinary thing. He swam 50 yards--all by himself! We explored the new YMCA in town. Really, how many times in a lifetime do you get to swim in a brand new, state of the art swimming facility? So, we went--on a school night! The staff required life jackets for all swimmers who couldn't pass the swimming test. (I'll leave my thoughts on this alone. For now. Because I have an opinion--big time.). My boy sized up the pool, swam his first 25 yards and then turned around and did it again! I'm proud, and I don't mind saying so. He's pretty awesome. 

From this little bathing beauty? "I wish I had a Hello Kitty ladder to reach all the way to the sky." 

When teaching her babies, "No cat! No! You not in school!" 

Every now and then, I'll catch her humming a familiarly catchy tune. I smile. And then I realize it's Katy Perry's "Roar." 

Ack! Did I really forget to download our Christmas photos? I suppose I did. 

She dressed herself in her Christmas duds. If you look closely, you can see the raging pinkeye infection. Christmas break wasn't kind to us. 

But Santa Claus was pretty kind. So were mom and dad and the grandparents. I hope RJ will get to hear his Poppy play the guitar someday just like I did when I was about his age. 

Every tiny-fingered little girl should have a dream. And if her dream is to be Cinderella, I hope I can be her fairy godmother with the magic Bippity Boppity Boo that makes her smile. 

Every little boy should have a dream too. And if his dream is to be Ironman or Optimus Prime, I hope I can keep my caped pressed and ready to go at a moment's notice, just to make him smile. 

Legos may be the greatest invention ever. Second only to two-ply toilet paper. 

If he wants to be Prince Charming, I'm okay with that too. 

Princess Aurora isn't so sure about it. 

Of course, he wouldn't be a five-year old boy if he wasn't comfortable in his own skin--and his sister's princess dress. I hope he's always this comfortable with himself. 

That level of confidence will take him far.

We celebrated at our little Lutheran school with a Christmas party and pajama day. 

This smile says it all. And I'm so grateful for the little school that makes it appear. 

We had a lovely day in January (except, of course, for the wind--oh! the wind!). 

Sometimes, she amazes me with her independence. She had a rock in her shoe. She told me about it, sat down, and took care of it. I hope she'll need me for something always. Given her propensities, I do have some concerns as to what "something" might be: "When I grow up, I'm gonna ride in a monster truck. Then, a police car." I sincerely hope that "something" isn't bail money.

Sometimes, our bedtime routine is flawless. We snuggle. There are few tears and fewer excuses. 

Those are the good nights. 

Until a small one wanders downstairs at 11--and totally gets caught on film. 

Or those nap times when she spends a quality hour silently removing her clothes--and weeing all over her bed. "I peed. I spray water allllll over Bunny Bunny." The carpet will never be the same. 

Fairly frequently, I'm asked how my days are different now from the days when I was in private practice. This picture pretty well defines the difference. I see a lot more of this face on ordinary afternoons, on ordinary trips to the grocery store. I get to see that he rests his tired eyes and fattens up his skinny legs with donuts every now and then. It's not glamorous. Some days, I'd give it up just for the chance to write a brief or head to court--alone. 

But then again, I wouldn't give up a moment. Not the pajama days.  

Not the snuggles on the floor vent. 

Certainly not the mornings at the library. I love the library! Could there be a better publicly provided service? It's amazing. Truly amazing when your really think about it for more than 5 minutes. 

I wouldn't want to miss this morning at the children's museum. 

Or the absolutely outstanding pie and coffee that was served. 

But you know what? I wouldn't want her to miss her morning sucker at school. Or her chance to be with little people who are just her size, and who understand all of her jokes. 

I'm happy she has time to color at her mommy's kitchen table. Because, every little girl should have a few minutes every now and again to color at her mommy's kitchen table. 

I kind of hated this picture at first, until I realized that it's me, in my most favorite room in the whole world, with my spot at my mom's kitchen table. 

We spend about an hour a day in the car. And I think Gigi would agree with me that the car pool line just is something we both wouldn't mind giving up. 

She dressed herself--in her brother's t-shirt, pink pants (because if you've got it, work it), and her bubby's Converse. Who am I to judge? When I was 9, my favorite shoes were yellow high-tops. 

We were a house divided for a day. 

You know those portraits of the bride where her parents look on proudly from afar? Remind me to dig this out someday for the little princess's wedding. (I really hope she doesn't end up at OU--that could be embarrassing for her.).

Whew. I'm nearly caught up. I love everything about this picture. Just because. It was an ordinary day with ordinary fun. 

And, just for giggles: RJ's views on the Gold Dome building? "Mom, why wouldn't they call it the pumpkin building?" Now there's a marketing idea!

If you've stuck with me this long, thanks! I'll be back with cohesive thoughts sometime soon. We just wrapped up a career fair, and I'm working on some exciting things in addition to my ordinary days. But, for now, I've simply got to go.