Yep...still all about me.

I have a college degree in Communications, right? So...I should be able to communicate effectively. One would think. Maybe it's the difference in culture? Maybe it's when I type I forget to use the "smartass" font and my meaning is misconstrued? Somehow in the past couple of weeks I have managed to call a fellow blogger's husband a Psychopath, label myself as a Smartiepants Know-it-All, a Child Abuser and a wannabe Husband Murderer. I've been busy, apparently.

The first two misunderstandings have been cleared up--profuse apologies on my part along with a big That Wasn't What I Meant To Say!

The other two were in response to a post written by a fellow police officer wife. She mentioned a conversation she overheard about someone telling someone else that someone else's husband had told his wife that if she ever left him he'd kill her. Not in a joking kinda way. My comment was that, yeah, we make jokes about it. I've informed my husband that I wouldn't waste money on a divorce if he ever cheated--there are perfectly good bridges available to dump his body over. Though that has since been revised. A number of years ago during his last Navy deployment when all evidence pointed that direction I realized that life wasn't so black and white anymore. On our recent anniversary (10 years!) we toasted to the fact that we hadn't killed each other yet--followed, of course, by "I'll probably kill you in the morning". Because what's an sappy sentiment without a Dread Pirate Robert's quote?

I also made mention of the fact that while I so definitely DO NOT condone or tolerate child abuse I understood the motivation behind it. I did not give birth to calm, docile children. They are highly intelligent and equally active. And there are days they push me to my very limits--and beyond--that I understand what would drive a mother to load her children up in her car and drive them into a lake. I get it. And those are the days I walk away from these precious little ones, take lots of deep breaths, pray--whatever it takes to calm down--and I go back to them and hold them in my arms. I am not a patient person. I am not a selfless person. Motherhood does not come easy for me. But I love my children beyond life itself and I would sooner walk away and leave them without a mommy before I laid a hand on one of them and hurt them.

We aren't a normal family. I understand that. There was really no way for us to be. The dynamics are all wonky and well, neither of us are normal. When we were dating he'd come over and cook me supper while I climbed into the engine of his ancient Dodge Ramcharger (The Beast) to diagnose and fix it's latest ailment. He manages the money--my dyslexia called that one--and I clean the bathroom. He takes care of the cat box and trash, I sweep the floor. He cooks. I wash dishes--though he's really good at washing dishes too! He shops for his own clothes. I don't shop. He irons his uniform. I know we have an iron, just can't quite place it right now, sorry. I taught him how to ride a motorcycle. He hung the new walls in the bathroom. I tiled and he fixed the plumbing. We are equal partners in parenting. We are both whole and complete persons all on our own but we complement each other perfectly--sort of like colors on the color wheel. I'm Green to his Red. It works.

Beyond the fact that I wasn't raised in an American culture, I often feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I'm not a normal girl--my dad taught me to ride a motorcycle in my early teens and I've been on bikes ever since. I have been inked twice in my life (both have very special meanings to me). I don't own or create scrapbooks. My son's desire for crafts leaves me in a panic attack. Jacob loves fairy princesses and pink and it totally throws my life out of whack because I want him to have the things that he enjoys but I know nothing about any of that! My first thought when I found out that our second child was a girl? What am I supposed to do with a girl?! Imagine my daily delight as she proves herself a non-girly girl as well. I don't know girlie stuff. While I have a few "chick flicks" they aren't my first choices in movie watching. Too sappy. Though When Harry Met Sally is still one of my all time favorites. My taste in movies runs the gamut from violent action films, classic film noir, old black and white horror (Ah, Bela Lugosy...I miss you), cheesy slapstick to cheesy science fiction--though I'm apparently the only person who still remembers Earth Girls Are Easy. I always thought that I was the only girl who found Army of Darkness hi-lar-i-ous--I was delighted to find I was wrong. Mel Brooks has a very special place in my heart. Don't even get me started on cowboy movies--not necessarily westerns--really don't get John Wayne movies. But The Man From Snowy River? I wanted to name my daughter Jessica just so I could go--yeah, Jessica in that send-my-heart-aflutter Aussie accent. I'm a rock-in-roll girl at heart. If Bon Jovi isn't played at my funeral there will
be haunting. I laugh too loud. I often speak before thinking. I am opinionated and stubborn. While I do make an effort to be diplomatic I often fall far short of being politically correct. I believe in manners and propriety. I have a nasty habit of being honest and a tenacious hold on my naive childhood belief that humans are inherently good.

While I adore my children, they are not coddled. They get firm "nos" when appropriate, time outs and banishments to bedrooms. I think I horrified my "boss" yesterday at lunch when I wrestled a waffle fry away from Jacob because he tried to sneak one from her after I had firmly informed him a number of times that he did not get anymore fries until he had eaten a piece of chicken. I also know he will walk all over me if he senses a weakness. But I'm also quick to praise them when they make the right decision. He was rewarded with a hug and a waffle fry once he ate his chicken. There's a good bit of yelling in this house, but there's also a lot of love and laughter too. The Yen and Yang factor of passion. Granted, there's been a lot less of the former and a lot more of the latter in recent months--at least a much more pleasant balance.

I don't remember who said it or where I first read it or the exact quote (oh fine, I made it up), but I read something one time that really struck me as True. It was something to the effect that we all have the common ground of sorrow, but not of laughter. Finding that common ground in a sense of humor is priceless. Sean and I both have a morbid, twisted sense of humor. We so get that in each other. During the several years of reproductive treatments, infertility and miscarriages we found solace in that humor. People would ask when were we going to have kids (why do they ask?) We finally started answering that we kept seeing these stores advertising "Baby Sales" and seeing people coming out with babies in their carts but we could never find the aisle where they were selling the babies. And I really don't like shopping anyway. The response was usually a look of horror. How could we joke about it? To which I responded: How could we not?! Was I supposed to dwell on the fact that my body was seemingly incapable of doing the one thing it was designed to do? Add to the stress of our already stressed out marriage? No. We laughed.

And when life surprised us with not just one but two unexpected wee little miracles? Oh, now we figure out what we were doing wrong. We laughed. And we haven't killed each other. Yet.