Tuesday evening after work I met a dear friend to go walking. We walked around the neighborhood admiring the sprawling variety of million dollar homes, then went back and sat around in her mom’s kitchen chatting about a variety of things. At one point she said, You should probably get going, huh? To which I replied, I don’t even know what time it is. To which she replied, It’s 7:20. (Rewind, I’m walking out the door and Mark is sitting on the sofa with his brown work shoes propped up on the coffee table, the dog laying like an expensive hide rug on the hardwood there below, and I say I’ll see you by 6:40). Mark isn’t one to panic, but an hour is a significant discrepancy, so I called as soon as I put the car in reverse.
“I’m on my way, I am so so so so so sorry. Are you mad?”
“No, I was just worried.”
“Oh my gosh, I know. I would have been so worried. I’m so sorry. I didn’t have my phone, totally lost track of time. Oh my gosh, it’s so much later than I thought. You’re not mad.”
“No, I’m not mad. I was just worried. Did you have fun?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Dinner is ready.”
(LOVE)
For two nights in a row Mark has cooked dinner. We’re not just talking grilled cheese, we’re talking an amazing, homemade chicken sausage, zuccini olive and onion spaghetti sauce over linguine with ciabatta last night and his own recipe for honey mustard salmon, some yummy boxed cous cous and salad tonight. Aside from grilling, Mark’s probably only cooked dinner ten times in the three years we’ve been married, which is pretty much purely because I’m a bit of a kitchen dictator, a non-delegator, a master culinary multi-tasker. That said, it’s an uncommon event. But for two nights in a row he has made it happen.
For what reason would I choose to relax my grip of control on the kitchen? Why, for two nights in a row, would I request my husband to come home from work and hunker down in front of the stove when it is something that energizes me, where as it is a chore for him?
Because I can’t tolerate the smell of cooking food. Because if I have to cook it I will certainly not be able to eat it. Because this BABY that’s growing inside my body has turned me upside down and everything feels opposite and inverted. I want to sleep all day. I don’t want to eat. Can’t cook. Want cheese.
That’s right, the baby! (We’ll consider this an official announcement.)
I’m two and half months pregnant, due with our first little family member March 18! We were trying, for a pretty long time actually, fodder for another post another day, and were stupid excited when we found out in early July. (It was 5:30 am. I was up to work out. I jumped on Mark, waking him up, screeching “IT’S POSITIVE THIS TIME!”)
And let me reiterate right now, my husband. I can’t stop loving him. He should teach this class to husbands of irritable, nauseas, flakey women: “How to Deal with Your Dragon Wife 400.” He is incredible. Granted, he’s kind of enjoying the fact that the only thing I want to eat is pizza.
Promise the blog won’t become a baby forum. But it’s going to be kind of fun to post pictures of baby and Moose Dog in a few months! I'm smiling.
