Well of course Phoebe can say "Dada." I didn't include that in the list because it just seemed so obvious, so hardly worth mentioning. In point of fact "Dada" was her very first word (well, it was either that or "dog.") So there!
My husband (Chris) pointed out to me that the only times I've mentioned him were to say that a) he eats Frosted Flakes and b) he lost his job. I said, "Yeah, so?"
But of course he is more than a sugary-cereal-eating, job-losing schmo. I haven't mentioned him yet because a) I've only written what, three whole posts anyway and b) I kind of think of him the way I do my right arm. Do I need to tell you people that my right arm is an essential part of my being? Do I need to tell you that I rely on my right arm for everything I do? Do I need to tell you that I would be absolutely lost without my right arm? No, I didn't think so. And so it is with Chris. (I can tell you now that he will be utterly unimpressed by this analogy and so I'll add for his benefit that yes, I would much rather be an amputee than a widow.)
I met Chris in a particularly unhappy point in my life. I was thousands of miles from home, working on a Master's degree that I'd already decided I didn't really want. I had Friends I Studied With and Friends I Worked in the Library With but no social life to speak of. The highlight of my week was Must-See-TV Thursday nights. I was a sad sack. But then there was Chris, and by about the third time I met him I'd decided that I would probably end up marrying him (and no, dear, by "end up" I don't mean that I was "settling," I just mean that I envisioned a future with you and it pleased me), and one night we spent about an hour trading Simpsons' quotes back and forth and laughing hysterically and I made him dinner (which became apparently the talk of my hometown) and he drove through a blizzard to pick me up from the airport that Christmas and now we've been married for eight years. And yes a whole lot of other stuff happened in there too. The salient point is that since I've met him, I've been happy. I'm a bit shy and socially awkward but I've always felt comfortable around Chris. He's like home. He's my best friend. And he's had a really rough year and I'm very proud of him for coming through to the other side. He's a great father to our girls and makes them laugh like no one else can. He teaches high school students and does things that makes them say "Oh, snap!" which I believe means that he impresses them, which in turn impresses me because I can't think of anything more terrifying than being around a bunch of teenagers all day. He's an excellent artist and he has pretty blue eyes and he's good with the comebacks. And I could go on but you get the idea. So there's my paean to my right arm.
Last Thursday Mallory came home from school with a sticker of the number 3 on her shirt. When questioned, she said that she got it because she was very good that day. "But why a 3?" we asked. "Because I'm special," she said.
Last night I got an class newsletter via email from her teacher, in which she explained that she had divided the class into three groups for ease of rotating them through the "centers." So Mallory's "3" just meant...that she got to do Science on Thursday. Special, indeed. I need to start questioning Mallory's assertions the way she does ours when we say something she's not sure about: "Are you fibbing or are you joking or are you teasing?"
I have the absolute best little sister and brother-in-law in the world. I love you both and I'll see you in 72 days!
My husband (Chris) pointed out to me that the only times I've mentioned him were to say that a) he eats Frosted Flakes and b) he lost his job. I said, "Yeah, so?"
But of course he is more than a sugary-cereal-eating, job-losing schmo. I haven't mentioned him yet because a) I've only written what, three whole posts anyway and b) I kind of think of him the way I do my right arm. Do I need to tell you people that my right arm is an essential part of my being? Do I need to tell you that I rely on my right arm for everything I do? Do I need to tell you that I would be absolutely lost without my right arm? No, I didn't think so. And so it is with Chris. (I can tell you now that he will be utterly unimpressed by this analogy and so I'll add for his benefit that yes, I would much rather be an amputee than a widow.)
I met Chris in a particularly unhappy point in my life. I was thousands of miles from home, working on a Master's degree that I'd already decided I didn't really want. I had Friends I Studied With and Friends I Worked in the Library With but no social life to speak of. The highlight of my week was Must-See-TV Thursday nights. I was a sad sack. But then there was Chris, and by about the third time I met him I'd decided that I would probably end up marrying him (and no, dear, by "end up" I don't mean that I was "settling," I just mean that I envisioned a future with you and it pleased me), and one night we spent about an hour trading Simpsons' quotes back and forth and laughing hysterically and I made him dinner (which became apparently the talk of my hometown) and he drove through a blizzard to pick me up from the airport that Christmas and now we've been married for eight years. And yes a whole lot of other stuff happened in there too. The salient point is that since I've met him, I've been happy. I'm a bit shy and socially awkward but I've always felt comfortable around Chris. He's like home. He's my best friend. And he's had a really rough year and I'm very proud of him for coming through to the other side. He's a great father to our girls and makes them laugh like no one else can. He teaches high school students and does things that makes them say "Oh, snap!" which I believe means that he impresses them, which in turn impresses me because I can't think of anything more terrifying than being around a bunch of teenagers all day. He's an excellent artist and he has pretty blue eyes and he's good with the comebacks. And I could go on but you get the idea. So there's my paean to my right arm.
Last Thursday Mallory came home from school with a sticker of the number 3 on her shirt. When questioned, she said that she got it because she was very good that day. "But why a 3?" we asked. "Because I'm special," she said.
Last night I got an class newsletter via email from her teacher, in which she explained that she had divided the class into three groups for ease of rotating them through the "centers." So Mallory's "3" just meant...that she got to do Science on Thursday. Special, indeed. I need to start questioning Mallory's assertions the way she does ours when we say something she's not sure about: "Are you fibbing or are you joking or are you teasing?"
I have the absolute best little sister and brother-in-law in the world. I love you both and I'll see you in 72 days!
Comments
Hilarious about Mallory's #3 sticker. When she becomes a noble peace prize winner of Science, just remember that she knew she was special!
We love you too! We are beyond excited!!
And I love that Mallory knew what her 3 meant, even if you adults didn't!
Holly
And thanks, babe. Seriously. This may all be obvious to you, but it's STILL nice to hear every once in awhile. I love you. Whoops, now I'M getting mushy.