The Story of Us

I would love to tell you about all the sex my wife and I have. Unfortunately, I can’t get into specifics-- my mother-in-law is a reader of my blog. If you really need to know, I’m sure you could ask our neighbors. Anyway, all that you really need to know is that we have two kids. Wait…they’re adopted. Never mind that. We have sex, okay? But it hasn’t always been like that between us. We were nothing more than friends for the first 5 years of our relationship. We were engaged to be married before we had ever even kissed.

I met Stacy early in my first year at Hamline University. It was her first year there, too- each of us did our time at community college before making the University leap. I lived in an apartment (a precursor to the Bullpen) in Champlin, and she lived with her parents in Hastings.  We had similar schedules that first semester; we both smoked, and really had nowhere to go during breaks. The upshot is this:  we saw a lot of each other for a couple of weeks. Eventually, we began chatting and became friends. We were both psychology majors. We took classes together, worked on projects together. By the end of our junior year, she had convinced me to join her in the psychology department’s Senior Honors Seminar.  We were together a lot senior year, nearly inseparable.  But, as I said, we were simply friends. I was engaged to the woman I would later marry, and Stacy had a serious boyfriend, who lived with her and her parents, and whom she would later marry.  I am not blind now, and I wasn’t then- I knew she was hot. But I am as faithful a person as you’re likely to meet and so is she. We never even came close to flirting. Anyway, we graduated and, that summer, I got married. Stacy and her boyfriend were not only guests; he was our photographer (did a great job, too).  The following summer, Stacy and he got married, and I was the videographer (did a so-so job, to be honest).

Now I am going to tell you the secret to a long and happy marriage. What I am about to tell you is so simple many people don’t even think of it. But it is the only thing you need to know. Here it is:  If you want to have a long and happy marriage, do NOT marry the wrong person. There you go, you may thank me later.  How do I know this? Because I married the wrong person first, and so did Stacy, and we met with predictable results.  By the time I shot that so-so video of Stacy’s wedding, my marriage was in trouble. You can read about that here, if you want. I moved back to my mother’s basement about a month after Stacy’s wedding. I was mostly drunk for a year or so, but in my sober moments I did some clear thinking about what had gone wrong. That is when I realized that simple truth I told you about earlier. I had married the wrong person; I knew it when I married her, simply didn’t have the guts to acknowledge it, nor to do anything about it- to walk away. And it occurred to me that I knew the right person.

While I was oscillating between drinking myself silly and sober realizations, Stacy was slogging through law school. She knew, before long, that she was married to a clown. But she was too busy with school to deal with it.  We didn’t talk much in those years. For one, she was busy, and I was, too- working, sleeping or drinking. But also, I was more and more certain that she and I should be married, and I didn’t want to talk to her, lest I would blurt that out, while she was still married to the clown.  We talked only when one of us moved and changed phone numbers. One day she called me at work.

“Blah, blah, blah…I’m leaving the clown. If you need to call me, call my mom’s house. I’ll be there a while.”

“Whoa. What? Really! I mean, really? That’s too bad.”  Wink. “Well, I’ve been there. If you ever need to talk about it.”  Please, please need to talk about it.

Well she did need to talk about it. We drove to the North Shore of Lake Superior, my favorite peaceful place. I was as content as I had ever been.  To get to my favorite boulder, we had to step across some smaller rocks. As Stacy prepared to hop from one rock to another, I offered my hand. I am not kidding when I tell you that the second she took it, I felt like I was home. God that felt good! But we weren’t even really on a date, and I was careful not to say anything that would scare her away. After a couple weeks of that- seeing each other 3 or 4 nights a week, but not really dating, certainly not touching, we decided to go to the state fair. I hatched a plan.

“We’re going to want to get there early,” I explained, “and we live so far apart. Maybe you should stay at the Bullpen the night before. Then we can all ride together.” (We were going with Sug and his girlfriend, Local H).

She walked right into the trap. “Okay.”

 My plan was as simple has my mind:  I would go to my room while she brushed her teeth. And when she came out of the bathroom, she would either go to the couch, as a friend would, or come in my room. That way I wouldn’t have to ask what the hell it was we were doing, and risk saying I wanted more than friendship if she didn’t; she'd have to make the first move! Bedtime came. She showed me her bravery- she used the Bullpen bathroom. I climbed into bed. She finished in the bathroom, walked out, stood in the bedroom doorway…and came in. (I was recently bragging about the genius of my plan while Stacy and I were relating this story to friends. She jumped in and said, “I thought you were going to be a gentleman and offer me the bed while you slept on the couch." Oops. Never thought of that.) I had a king size bed, and I stayed far to one side. We chatted a bit.

And then I finally said, “I have to tell you something. I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And, what’s more, I would marry you tomorrow, if you would say ‘yes’”.

“I love you, too. I think we could have a good marriage.”

And so we were engaged, and had never so much as hugged.  

Poets and writers superior to me have put into words how I felt in the months following that night. I won’t even try. But there was something not quite right- we lived 50 miles apart, and I worked long, odd hours. I wanted to see her every second of every day, but had to settle for a night a week. I was able to spend every other weekend with her, at her mom’s. That was nice, but far too short. One night, a cold, Minnesota winter night, we talked about warm places. I said that I loved San Antonio, that it was a reasonable drive.  One thing led to another, I got out of work for a couple days (she still hadn’t found a job), and we set off south. It was a whirlwind 5 days, the better part of 4 of which we spent in the car. But it was fantastic to spend that time together. We arrived back at Stacy’s mom’s house late in the evening. I stayed a while, hating the thought of leaving. Eventually, though, I had to. I said goodbye, and headed towards the Bullpen. We had talked about me moving in with Stacy and her mom in two months, when the Bullpen lease was up. Each block I drove that night I got more miserable.  I’ve been miserable long enough. I don’t want to be anymore.”  I was on the edge of Hastings, a few miles from Stacy, when I turned around.

I could see Stacy sitting on the couch, watching T.V. with her mom when I pulled into the driveway. She saw the lights, and jerked her head to look outside. She was already smiling when she saw it was me. Her smile broadened and she ran for the door.

“What’s going on?” She asked nervously. She knew.

“I can’t leave. I’ll figure out something with work. Maybe work fewer days, longer hours. But the Bullpen isn’t home anymore. Wherever you are is. I don’t want to spend another night away from you.”

 And I haven’t.

Thought of the Day

One thing that babies and dogs have in common, a thing I really like about them, is that you can say whatever you want to them, as long as you say it nicely.

"Little baby, you're so sweet. Yes you are. But if you don't stop crying soon, I'm going to throw you in the fucking snowbank. Coochie, coochie, coo."

"Come here puppy. There's a bad doggie. Yes, thank you for shitting on the rug. Bad girl! Aren't you ugly.  Please don't shit in the house again, you skanky slut."

What kind of doctor are you?

There is nothing funny about taking your baby to a pediatric neurologist. Nothing funny, that is, except the part when the doctor, a little, old, Chinese woman, acts out her diagnosis that your son, due to his big head, will always be “loosy goosy.”

Our son is adopted, so we don’t know if big heads run in his family. If he was our biological child, I guess we could have said, “Oh yeah, Uncle Kev has a huge head. I’ve never seen the hat that fit him. And there are some great-uncles, too.” But, since we cannot explain why his head is in the 99^th percentile, his doctor thought he should see a specialist, to rule out possibly serious problems like hydrocephalus (water on the brain). 

The neurologist gave him a thorough examination, which included crawling around on the floor with him, alternately cooing like a grandmother and clicking and clacking like a Kalahari Bushman.  She told us his head was asymmetric, with one cheek bigger than the other, and his right ear longer than his left. She also diagnosed him with torticollis, a condition in which the muscle on one side of his neck is shorter than the one on the other side, as a result of his position in the womb. The cooing, clicking, clacking, grandma doctor told us not to worry- she was confident, based on her rolling around on the floor with him, that his range-of-motion was good, and that his neck would loosen up over time. 

But his ample bean is another matter. Is it a harmless personal trait, or something more serious? An upcoming MRI should answer that.  The crawling, cooing, clicking, clacking, grandma doctor is pretty confident that our son simply has a big head, “He has a big head. The question is: why?  I am happy with his development. Sometimes babies with big heads have limited motor skills. But this one is just loosy goosy.”

“Loosy goosy?”

“Right.” She stands up to demonstrate. Her hips gyrate, her arms flail. You’ve seen this move, even though you were not in that room. Can you guess where? She stood in the middle of the room, gyrating and flailing exactly like those windsock humanoids you see at car dealerships and the like. “Loosy goosy. And he probably always will be a little loosy goosy as a consequence of his big head.”

“Thanks, doc.  One last question: Will you be reading the results of the MRI, or will Dr. Seuss?”

Think of the Children

I gave my wife a break this morning. The baby was sleeping, so I took our daughter to Target, where we bought a few books and, in keeping with my routine, covered all the facings of douche bag authors with copies of “Poker Face:  The Rise and Rise of Lady Gaga.” My daughter didn’t want to tag along at first, but I bribed her by promising that we would listen to mommy music in the car. A month ago, her favorite singers were Ariel, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and the rest of the Disney Princess stable. These days she prefers Katy Perry, Pink, and the Black Eyed Peas. There are times when I wonder if this isn’t good- maybe my four year-old girl shouldn’t sing some of these songs. It is important to note that when Katy Perry sings of melting popsicles, my daughter takes her literally, and when she hears that Katy Perry is drinking Gin and Juice, it is the juice that piques her interest.  So I decide its okay. My job as a parent is to hold back the flood, like a great dam, letting the world trickle towards my kids at a rate they can handle.  It is not my job to pretend that there is not a boiling ocean of water on the other side of the dam. For some time, at least, my wife and I will be our kids’ greatest influences. Hopefully, in addition to everything else they hear, from us they will learn to:

Be kind - Don’t be soft, but be gentle. Don’t crawl over anyone on your way up, but don’t stop crawling up either.

Be patient - you know what you need to do. Do it and good things will happen.

Be quiet - if you’re great, people will know it; if you’re not, keep it to yourself.

Be happy - this is not easy. It takes some courage, oddly, simply to be happy.

Be the Serenity Prayer.

Be honest - just in case there is a God who is watching.

Love yourself.

Love someone else.

Be silly - and if you have kids someday, let them listen to music that makes them happy. There are many, many ills that can be cured by a kid giggling and dancing in the backseat.

 Oh…and don’t be preachy.

How Lucky is my Wife?

We discovered today, on our basement end table, a substance that is almost certainly mouse shit. Now Stacy is seeing it everywhere. She's on the floor with the baby and spots a small, black speck, "OOOOO! Is that mouse poop?"

"Oh c'mon," I implore, "not every small, black speck you see is mouse shit. That is exactly what the bat shit on our porch looked like. It's important to remember that all small rodents' shit looks the same.That there could be anything."

Dear Smitty: Reader Appreciation Edition

Dear Smitty: I've got issues. Issue 1: I've got a husband. Issue 2: I've got 3 kids. Issue 3: I stay home with 3 kids. Issue 4: I've got lumps and bumps I never had before...see Issue 2. Issue 5: Everyone constantly needs something from me, be it food, beverage, an ass wiping, a tummy deflation, cleanish clothes, a roll in the hay (see issue 1). Issue 6: I’m kind of sick of all of it and when I see my single friends, I’m almost overcome with jealousy. Any advice?

Signed,

Every tired mom, everywhere


Dear Every tired mom, everywhere,

This is a tough one for Smitty. On the one hand, I don’t like to waste my time on married women, for obvious reasons. Oh sure, I could help you alright, but society, and most husbands, have trouble with the help I have to offer, and I’m getting too old to be jumping out of bedroom windows. On the other hand, I do get a ton of letters from desperate mothers (and fathers) and so I have thought some about this. What I’ve come up with is admittedly imperfect, but it goes something like this: No one is as happy as they seem. No one (not even Smitty). No doubt some of your single friends have looked fondly at your life once or twice. Now, don’t get me wrong: I am NOT saying that marriage is for me. But, if I’m being honest, there are times when I see families having a nice moment and think, FLEETINGLY, “That looks nice.” That’s all I got. I will leave you with another letter I just received. It was about you.

p.s. If none of that helps, there is one more thing you can do: Quit seeing your single friends.


Dear Smitty,

I am a dad who stays at home with two kids. I am tired all the time. I write some, but I have energy for little else. I have a friend who is a stay-at-home mom- she has kids almost exactly the same age as mine (her son was, in fact, born the same day as mine), AND another one in the middle. I am a writer largely because of her. Reading her blog made me realize I should start one, too. And she always has a business or something going. She has a good marriage, it seems, and I know for certain that she has good, active kids. And that is not all- she has been training for months to run a marathon, which she will run, and almost certainly finish, tomorrow! In my healthiest days, days when my time was mostly my own, I couldn’t run 26 feet without stopping for air. How she has done all this is beyond me. Here’s my problem: How do I tell her how much I admire her without pissing off her husband, who, I should add, is a war veteran?

Signed,

Secret admirer.

Where is the Line?

My friend, Shannon, and I recently discussed  "The Line." You know, the line you do not cross if you are married, or the person on the other side of the line is married. As you may have guessed, Shannon is a woman. But she thinks a lot like me, her sense of humor is almost exactly like mine (for this reason I have made her an honorary "Bull"- she is the first "Cow".  Yes, I have the authority to add "Bulls.")  Here's the deal:  I amuse myself by acting like I would do things that I never would. When relating a story to my wife, I always try to add a "tough guy" comment. For example, I will say, "So the checkout lady asked if I had forgotten about the pop on the bottom of my cart, and I said, 'Yes, but I have not forgotten my fists! Pow!'" And that is how I feel when I talk about sex with women friends. I will only do it when I know that they know I'm full of shit, that I would never do anything to jeopardize my marriage. As I told Shannon:  "Words, by and large, cannot offend me. As I think back on it, the only thing my first wife said to another person that bothered me was 'I love you.' And then, too, she let him put his penis in her vagina, and who knows where else, and that is where I draw the line."