A not-so-private love letter

I wrote this in 2010 and it was originally posted here, as part of a love letter blogging challenge. Eleven years ago, and this--all of this--still rings true.

Happy 19 years to the man who will forever remain my buzz long after last call.

Dear P, 

When Momalom put out a challenge to write a love letter, you immediately came to mind. I hesitated, though, because really...what would people think...that I am choosing to profess my love to my husband? And on the Internet?? Seriously, how corny and codependent is that? I thought of so many other clever "loves": my stilettos, my cocktails, my pillow. Even writing a love letter to my children, although very predictable, would have been more acceptable, I suspect.

But I chose you. I think I owed it to you and to Us to be honest. To put it out there. You have never been afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And as loud as I usually am, I think you deserve a little more noise from my side.

Plus, our love affair started on paper...post-its stapled shut, letters on notebook paper...the lines impossibly and frantically filled with confessions, promises, and fears.

So let me just say it...the cliche...the thing so often found inside greeting cards this time of year: I don't know how I got so lucky.

I don't.

I look around and find it impossibly delicious that you are mine.

There was something about you, from the beginning, that made me stop breathing. Literally. I would stop breathing when you walked into a room. What is that? Really. What is that? And although I can say I think you're hot as hell, and although I am sure you'd love to hear that it was your amazingly rugged good looks that did it to me, it wasn't. It was something else entirely. Although, even now, ten years later, I still can not name it.

The absolutely most amazing thing about it is this: when you walk unexpectedly into a room, and I look up and am surprised to see you, in that moment when the realization hits that it is You, I still get a flutter...there is still a very slight, very shallow, very sudden intake of breath. Oh. It's you.

Some of my love is shallow and silly. Sometimes, when we're out on a date night, I scan the room. I look at all the men there and I pretend I don't know you and I am always amazed that you are the only guy I would want to buy me a drink. And probably take me home.

Some of my love is the kind that can only grow from the everyday: raising children, paying mortgages, real life. When the children are sick, you wake up right alongside me (sometimes without me), you take the temperatures, you clean the vomit, you hold them close until they fall asleep. You make them feel safe. When the house needs cleaning, when the dinner needs cooking, when the laundry needs doing, you just do it. You don't point it out. You don't ask for props. You never call it "helping."

But even more than my partner at home, you're my partner in crime. There is no one I have more fun with...no one I'd rather get slammed drunk with....no one makes me laugh as much as you do. How is it that I have married a man who can be at a club with me til 4:00 in the morning, partying like a frat boy, and then be Daddy the next day, so often better than I can be Mommy?

You love like no one I know, yet you don't offer it easily. It's hard to get to you. It's hard to matter in your life. As sensitive and passionate as you are, you reserve that for a very select few. You simply don't have time, you say. And, as you so honestly put it, just don't care. You don't care about being politically correct. You don't care about what others want or expect. You answer to nearly no one. Yet for those of us who have been lucky enough, your loyalty is frighteningly intense. You will go to the ends of the earth for someone you love, but always expect the same in return.

From the beginning, you put me first. That was our deal. Above everything and everyone, we would make Us our priority. And even after the kids came, even after life became more and more difficult to juggle, you've held me to that. You've held Us to that. When I get caught up in Life: the bills, the responsibility, the kids, the general noise inside my head, you call me on it. You want to talk. To drink wine. To listen. To love.

I love you as much for this constant desire to make time for us as for your absolute refusal to put up with my shit. I can be tough. I can be clingy. I can be whiny. I can be bitchy. You call me on that, too.

Yet despite your total and complete commitment to me, you have your own life. You have your passions outside of Us. You need your time away, your time alone, to be your own self, separate from being mine, or ours, or theirs. Your love for the outdoors, for your bikes, for testing your limits, makes me love you even more. You are, without question, your own person, apart from your family. And so you understand why I need to have my own things, too. It is what makes you understand all of me...my blog, my friends, my interests, my latest crazy idea.

That is the best thing about you, I think, if I had to pick one (other than those forearms of yours): you understand me. Really, and truly, you understand me. You've seen my absolute best and, embarrassingly, my absolute worst, and everything in between. You not only accept who I am, but you want me to be more of it: you are the one who constantly reminds me to stop being afraid of myself.

So, no. I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know what happened or how it happened or why it happened. Sometimes I look around, at you, at our kids, at us, and I still can't believe this has worked. I can't believe we are this happy...this in sync. So, yes. My love letter had to be to you. Because there is nothing and no one I love the way I love you.

Love,

Me

20 years ago

I walked away

from a life I thought I was supposed to want

from the plans I made because I thought I was supposed to

from the picket fence dream that was someone else's

from the expectations everyone had for me

and the ones I forced on myself

I walked away

from always feeling out of breath

restricted

trapped

my voice was always too loud

my clothes were always too bright

my ideas were always too outlandish

I thought what I wanted was not what I was supposed to want

I thought who I was was not who I was supposed to be

I thought I was not strong enough

I walked away

20 years ago

a lifetime ago

just yesterday

and walked into a life I never thought possible

a life I thought I was greedy for wanting

a life I thought existed only in movies or books or my dreams

I was strong enough to walk away

to refuse everyone's opinions

to trust my own

to trust you

I walked away from a life that was never mine

and walked into ours

I am still in awe

and although you still take my breath away

now I can breathe

You can love being with your kids--AND without them

I was at a kid's birthday party once, discussing vacation plans and travel tips with another mom, when I asked her if the trip she was planning was a family one, or just a getaway for her and her husband. She--I kid you not--literally gasped, put a hand to her chest, and said "Oh nooooo, we never travel without the children. I don't have those kinds of urges." While I was busy trying not to respond inappropriately nor giggle at the use of the word urges, she then threw in the following statement, unprompted, just for good measure: "I asked my husband once. He said he does not have those urges either." *

*Fine print: no portion of the aforementioned conversation was exaggerated, tweaked, altered, made up, or misquoted for the sake of comedic effect.

I do have those urges.

I had them when they were teeny-tiny babies and smelled delicious and their presence in my life felt as tender and unexpected as the soft spots on their heads. I had them when they were bigger but still so little and called me "Mama" in their raspy little voices. I have them now when they are pre-teen and full-blown-in-my-face-teen and simultaneously awe and enrage me.

I love my boys. I love snuggling on the couch with them on family movie nights. I love listening to them tell me stories about how they handled a socially charged situation in school. I love climbing into our RV and spending a bunch of days with just the four of us making s'mores, riding bikes, and searching for adventure. I love that they both still expect (and enjoy) their bedtime songs and nightly rituals. I love being Mommy.

But I love being Liz, too. I love paddle boarding by myself at sunrise and discussing books over wine with my book club girls and reading the 704th book from the Outlander series in peace.

And I love being Hubby's Wife, too. I love strolling on the boardwalk in the afternoon hand-in-hand to decompress from our day and talking with him quietly over beers at our favorite local bar and spending an entire day at the beach drinking way too many Jack and Cokes.

I have urges. Lots of 'em.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to go on many getaways with Hubby, sans kids, thanks to amazing grandparents. Most of the trips have been little getaways, designed to help us reconnect and recharge so we could do Us better, but also so we could do Parenting better. These days, we go on way more family trips than Just Us trips, because we know we only have so many years left with the boys before they: a) are no longer able to take time away from their school/sports/schedules, b) grow up and move away, or c) no longer want to travel with us. Plus, now that they are not babies anymore, there are a lot of places we want to show them and lots of things we want to discover. So for now, if we can sneak in a long weekend once or twice a year without the kids, that's enough.

We are getting ready to take the boys on their first cruise in the next couple of months, and planning for that got me thinking about the last time Hubby and I were on a cruise. It was the first time we went away together after Kai was born. We were parenting an almost-4-year-old and a very high-maintenance 6-month-old so let's just say we were urging.  Reading that post made me relive both the desperation we felt to get away and the sweetness of feeling like we were leaving someone behind who would miss us with nearly equal parts desperation. Let's just say Ben's reaction, at age 4, was quite different to what his reaction would be now, at 14, if we were to announce we were going away for a few days. It definitely made me a little melancholic, but I guess the bright side is that as they get older and less dependent on us, the more opportunities we will have to satisfy those other urges.

So here's the Throwback post from that cruise getaway originally posted here on July 7, 2009:

Pina Colada, anyone?

"Four days?!? You and Daddy are gonna be gone for four days?"

"Yes, Ben, that is why (pause here for dramatic emphasis) you get to rent FOUR Blockbuster movies for grandma's house!! Isn't that gonna be cool?!?"

"But Maaaamaaaa, I don't waaaant you and Daddy to be gone for four days. I want to be with you guys aaaaall the time."

We have been telling Ben about our upcoming "Mommy and Daddy Vacation" for a few days now. I think it just hit him today that maybe, just maybe, he might have a problem with it. It seems that 4 rental movies do not cancel out 4 days of no Mama and Dada. Darn.

Hubby and I are big believers in spending quality grown-up couple time together. We do not think a fancy dinner can be romantic with 2 children sitting at the table with us (in spite of what some parents we know tell us...repeatedly). We do not think a family vacation--although wonderful in its own right--is as relaxing or as recharging for the marriage as a true getaway all alone. I realize that not everyone has this option. We do. We have my mom, Babysitter Extraordinaire. We are lucky. Really lucky.

So we will be leaving in exactly 40 hours (um, ehem, approximately), and we will tap into our Old Selves. The ones we were before we were Mama and Daddy. The ones we were when we met. And dated. And held hands. And kissed. And giggled. And flirted. And, uh, other stuff. It's hard to be Those People in our daily lives. It's hard to...and we try, Lord knows, we try. We reach out across the expanse of our family room, strewn with rattles, Hot Wheels cars, balls, books, and Nerf darts, and we try to reconnect as often as possible. With winks. With kisses. With smiles. With hugs. And after we put the boys down to sleep, we try to, with some regularity, open a bottle of wine, put on some music, talk (yes, really talk) and love each other. On the best nights, it feels like old times. On the worst nights, we're too tired to even bother with any of it. On most nights, we manage to steal an hour to ourselves before we collapse with exhaustion. This is Our Lives right now. It's what we want. But it's hard.

If you're lucky enough to be parenting with someone you'd still marry all over again, then it can definitely be more rewarding, but in some ways it can make day-to-day life even more frustrating. Because when you actually like the person you're parenting with, when you actually miss him even though he's still right there, living with you, sleeping in your bed, making breakfast with you everyday, helping you turn little boys into men, well, then it can be doubly hard because it's the parenting that's keeping you apart. So to have four...count 'em...four whole days and nights to OURSELVES on a cruise ship...away from the Real World, away from Our Current Lives, away from...yes, The Kids...it will be heaven. But as I finalize my packing, as I count down the last few hours, as I get my passport ready, I realize that I am leaving behind 2 little boys...one who will notice our absence, really notice it, for the first time, and in spite of the promises of Blockbuster movies, special outings with the grandparents, no bedtimes, and extra candy, well...the truth of the matter is, fortunately or unfortunately, he still likes being with us best.

So when I heard the panic creeping into his voice today, I felt a bit of the same panic creeping into me. Not so much because I will miss him, but because I want him to behave for Grandma and Grandpa...I want him to have fun...I want him to be happy...and, I have to admit, I want to leave guilt-free. And if he is clinging to my leg upon my departure, it will take me more than a couple of umbrella drinks to unwind and really let go. And letting go is the whole purpose of this trip.

I think I'm gonna need a lot of singles for the bartenders.

A Private Love Letter for the World to Read (Again)

March 23, 2002  Key West, Florida

Fifteen years of marriage.

It simultaneously feels like it was "just yesterday" and a lifetime. I can't remember what my life was like or who I was before I married him. And yet, it still feels so fun and exciting and worthwhile, that on date nights, I still get slightly giddy. I still fluff my hair out a bit when I see him walk in the room.

So in spite of the fact that I rarely visit this little corner of my world lately, I could not let such an important date go by without feeling the need for a little declaration, an "ode to" of sorts...

I wrote this letter a little over seven years ago as a response to a blog challenge in which I participated. Every word still rings true, and, I suspect (and hope), it still will in another seven...or fifteen...or fifty....



Dear "Hubby,"

When Momalom put out a challenge to write a love letter, you immediately came to mind. I hesitated, though, because really...what would people think...that I am choosing to profess my love to my husband? And on the Internet?? Seriously, how corny and codependent is that? I thought of so many other clever "loves": my stilettos, my cocktails, my pillow. Even writing a love letter to my children, although very predictable, would have been more acceptable, I suspect.

But I chose you. I think I owed it to you and to Us to be honest. To put it out there. You have never been afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And as loud as I usually am, I think you deserve a little more noise from my side.

Plus, our love affair started on paper...post-its stapled shut, letters on notebook paper...the lines impossibly and frantically filled with confessions, promises, and fears.

So let me just say it...the cliche...the thing so often found inside greeting cards this time of year: I don't know how I got so lucky.

I don't.

I look around and find it impossibly delicious that you are mine.

There was something about you, from the beginning, that made me stop breathing. Literally. I would stop breathing when you walked into a room. What is that? Really. What is that? And although I can say I think you're hot as hell, and although I am sure you'd love to hear that it was your amazingly rugged good looks that did it to me, it wasn't. It was something else entirely. Although, even now, ten years later, I still can not name it.

The absolutely most amazing thing about it is this: when you walk unexpectedly into a room, and I look up and am surprised to see you, in that moment when the realization hits that it is You, I still get a flutter...there is still a very slight, very shallow, very sudden intake of breath. Oh. It's you.

Some of my love is shallow and silly. Sometimes, when we're out on a date night, I scan the room. I look at all the men there and I pretend I don't know you and I am always amazed that you are the only guy I would want to buy me a drink. And probably take me home.

Some of my love is the kind that can only grow from the everyday: raising children, paying mortgages, real life. When the children are sick, you wake up right alongside me (sometimes without me), you take the temperatures, you clean the vomit, you hold them close until they fall asleep. You make them feel safe. When the house needs cleaning, when the dinner needs cooking, when the laundry needs doing, you just do it. You don't point it out. You don't ask for props. You never call it "helping."

But even more than my partner at home, you're my partner in crime. There is no one I have more fun with...no one I'd rather get slammed drunk with....no one makes me laugh as much as you do. How is it that I have married a man who can be at a club with me til 4:00 in the morning, partying like a frat boy, and then be Daddy the next day, so often better than I can be Mommy?

You love like no one I know, yet you don't offer it easily. It's hard to get to you. It's hard to matter in your life. As sensitive and passionate as you are, you reserve that for a very select few. You simply don't have time, you say. And, as you so honestly put it, just don't care. You don't care about being politically correct. You don't care about what others want or expect. You answer to nearly no one. Yet for those of us who have been lucky enough, your loyalty is frighteningly intense. You will go to the ends of the earth for someone you love, but always expect the same in return.

From the beginning, you put me first. That was our deal. Above everything and everyone, we would make Us our priority. And even after the kids came, even after life became more and more difficult to juggle, you've held me to that. You've held Us to that. When I get caught up in Life: the bills, the responsibility, the kids, the general noise inside my head, you call me on it. You want to talk. To drink wine. To listen. To love.

I love you as much for this constant desire to make time for us as for your absolute refusal to put up with my shit. I can be tough. I can be clingy. I can be whiny. I can be bitchy. You call me on that, too.

Yet despite your total and complete commitment to me, you have your own life. You have your passions outside of Us. You need your time away, your time alone, to be your own self, separate from being mine, or ours, or theirs. Your love for the outdoors, for your bikes, for testing your limits, makes me love you even more. You are, without question, your own person, apart from your family. And so you understand why I need to have my own things, too. It is what makes you understand all of me...my blog, my friends, my interests, my latest crazy idea.

That is the best thing about you, I think, if I had to pick one (other than those forearms of yours): you understand me. Really, and truly, you understand me. You've seen my absolute best and, embarrassingly, my absolute worst, and everything in between. You not only accept who I am, but you want me to be more of it: you are the one who constantly reminds me to stop being afraid of myself.

So, no. I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know what happened or how it happened or why it happened. Sometimes I look around, at you, at our kids, at us, and I still can't believe this has worked. I can't believe we are this happy...this in sync. So, yes. My love letter had to be to you. Because there is nothing and no one I love the way I love you.

Love,
Me

*This blog was originally posted here on February 8, 2010.
Happy Anniversary, P. 
You were the best decision I ever made.

We.

no one

is as happy

as We.

we have

grown

together

Somehow

we are always

on the same

page

wanting

the same things

rearranging

the same priorities

at the end of the day

it is always

each other

at

the

top

of

the

list

amidst all the bullshit

that comes

with

every day

We.

Ten Years and Two Puzzle Pieces

together

even then

even when

I barely knew

myself

you knew

me

you knew

us

from the beginning

it was

too perfect

too painful

how could it ever work?

this Thing

you

me

Us

I was so sure that

the reality of every day

would tear apart

dissolve

ruin

what we had

it was the pain

I was sure

that made us so perfect

but you insisted

you were sure

and I could not

turn away

could not

breathe

it hurt

to breathe

we wanted to

want

but the desire

was so strong

it was a need

and certainly

that

could

never

last

yet

here we are

I let you

and you took care of me

and now

here we are

taking care of each other

Happy Anniversary, Hubby...a whole decade and it still feels exciting and fresh...yet I don't even remember life before you.  I really am the lucky one.

*In addition to my 10-year wedding anniversary, there was another anniversary of sorts this month...when I was off gallivanting to Paris, this little blog celebrated its THIRD year! Happy blog-a-versary to me/it!

My Life, in Lists: French Lessons

Was it really just four days ago that I was sitting in a hip little restaurant on the Champs-Ellysees, wearing my new Lanvin stiletto booties, yet another glass of Bordeaux in my hand, feeling oh-so-glamorous and gorgeous and relaxed, Hubby at my side? Seems impossible. I have spent the last 2 days recovering from jet lag, helping Hubby recover from a virus, and getting the kids recovered from a week-long of spoiling a la grandparent-style. I had to chuckle today when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: hair frizzy and sticking out, bags under my eyes, not a lick of make-up, clutching another armload of dirty laundry. That certainly does not look like that woman who was strutting around Paris, all full of wine and cheese and anniversary sex...

When you have kids, reality sets in really, really fast.

But I can't complain one bit. In fact, I've literally laughed at the disparity of what my life has been in less than a week. The woman I was, for a few precious, indulgent days, and that mom I am the rest of the time. How lucky are we that we had it? How glorious those 7 days were...

Today I found myself singing "I Love Paris" under my breath as the kids were getting into yet another little piece of melodrama. That's the thing with vacations without the kids: you are a much better parent because of them.

But it wasn't all wine and cheese and shopping...I actually found Paris to be incredibly educational. Some of the lessons are silly and frivolous, but some have a little more power to change my everyday life, even if just a little bit, if I can remember them.

Little Lessons I Picked Up While in Paris:

1. The French no longer hate Americans. They are not snippy or unpleasant, even when you butcher their language. In fact, we found that just about every single person we dealt with went out of his or her way to understand, assist, and please us.
2. French women are not preoccupied with trying to look younger. They are just walking around, looking their ages and looking incredibly put together and effortless and simple.
3. You should always look put together. Even when buying a baguette for breakfast. Or walking your incredibly cute dog.
4. French dogs are waaaaaaay cuter than American dogs.
5. French kids are waaaaaaay better dressed than American kids.
6. French dogs and French kids are waaaaaaay better behaved than American ones. No joke. For real. It was astonishing. The only time we heard a kid yell was when we were having a picnic by the Eiffel Tower and the silence was abruptly disturbed by children racing and playing Tag. They spoke English. The dogs do poop everywhere, but given the lack of grassy patches, I suppose that's not really their fault. And not even one single dog tried to lick my toes or jump on my legs (my friends know I HATE that).
7. Sex toy shops do not have to be seedy or gross or make me feel like I have to shower afterwards. In fact, in Paris, many are decorated nicer than the Bloomingdales in the U.S.
8. There is no shame in being sexual...or sexy...or in love. PDA is so not a big deal in Paris.
9. Carbs are not the enemy.
10. Neither is cheese.
11. Ditto for alcohol.
12. Have wine at Every. Single. Meal.
13. Relish Every. Single. Meal.
14. Have an actual conversation over your meal. Save your Facebooking and your texting and your apps for the Metro. We did not see one person on the phone at a cafe or a restaurant or a bar. Even the people who were eating by themselves (which could be listed as yet another lesson: Eating alone is no big deal) simply sat and ate, smoked, read, or pondered life.
15. You shouldn't have to apologize if you spend an hour nursing your espresso or your wine while you take up a table to finish your book. In Paris, they never bring you the check until you ask for it.
16. Use really big spoons for dessert.
17. Butter is good.
18. If the coffee is good, it doesn't actually need all that cream and sugar and occasional dollop of artificial flavoring.
19. French people really, really like American music. This worked out well for us when we went to a hip French nightclub and were pleasantly surprised that every other song was straight off American top dance charts (Who thought we would ever find ourselves dancing to Pitbull in Paris?!?). However, it got pretty annoying when nearly every cafe and restaurant was playing late 80's and early 90's tunes. (Bananarama over crepes? Really??)
20. It is not, apparently, a big deal to wash your hands at a public restroom sink while a man is using the urinal right beside you. (Two times in Paris, and I still can't get over the co-ed bathroom deal.)
21. Consider wearing sensible shoes. (I was shocked to discover that my color-blocked 5-inch stilettos were, by far, the highest and fiercest in the nightclub. I mean, c'mon, ladies, this is Paris. I don't care if you have to walk cobblestones and take a bus or a train...you all are the birthing center of all things high fashion! But then, as I found myself to be the only girl standing in her stockinged bare feet at the taxi stand at 5:00 a.m., because I just couldn't take the pain anymore...did I mention they played Pitbull?...I understood.)
22. Make pleasure a priority.
23. Indulging is not being indulgent.
24. I can go a whole week without being snippy, snappy, or sarcastic. Apparently, enjoying life can really do that for a girl.

Paris was absolute perfection. We spent 7 days just being together. We ate the most delicious things and drank the best wine (why don't I get a hangover in France??) and bought great stuff. We talked and laughed and danced and held hands. We toasted "To 10 Years" with every glass. We definitely recognized that couple. They are still there. And because of that little trip, they're going to be making more regular appearances around here, too.



I swear, I could have had this at every single meal (I nearly did).

 
 


The Eiffel Tower:  Even more breathtaking the second time around!



Dancing all night in my non-sensible shoes at the chic French nightclub...



Only the American girl was standing barefoot at the taxi stand...



Strolling the streets of Paris at night...so Owen Wilson in "Midnight in Paris"



Picnic on the lawn by the Eiffel Tower: #482 on my Life List...check!

My favorite souvenir: Lanvin shoe bootie pumps, 2009 collection, found in a little vintage shop in the Marais neighborhood...never worn!

Our last night in Paris...in our cute little hotel room with the wrap-around balcony.
Au revoir!

J'adore Paris

I recognize them...that young couple...fresh-faced and in awe, a bit bewildered by it all: How did this happen? How is it possible that we are, together, married, in front of the Eiffel Tower? That was 10 years ago. Our honeymoon. We were still untouched by the sleepless nights that came with our newborns (and occasionally still make guest appearances with our now-almost-big-boys), by the stress of leaving on a trip and leaving behind two little souls who will miss and go on with their little lives without us (as best they can), by the overwhelming responsibilities that come with Grown-Up Life: the mortgage, the lawn guy, the daily packing of lunchboxes, the realizations that come with watching your own parents age, watching  your children grow, watching life happen.

And tomorrow, we go back.

To Paris.

Just the two of Us.

Seven days of just Us and hopefully trying to feel a little bit of that carefree abandon, that joie de vivre (sorry, couldn't resist) that was our life before the wonders of: Reality and The Boys (sounds like a rock band).

Just Us.
In Paris.

I can't get over it.

Once again, I find myself wondering, How did I get here? How did I get so lucky? How did we find each other? How did it all work out?

Paris was, for me, that place I dreamed about growing up (and by growing up, what I really mean is my early and mid twenties), that I never thought I could possibly make it to. That was back when I didn't know any better. About anything, really. I didn't know that I got to make the choices in my life. I didn't know that I got to decide who I spent my time with and what I got to do during that time. I didn't realize that, really, Paris was just a place, and all I had to do to get there was go.

It had seemed impossible.

Ten years later, life doesn't (usually) feel too impossible. For the most part, Hubby and I...we can make good stuff happen. We've been lucky. We've been blessed. And we work hard at the rest.

So for the last few months I have been practicing my French conversational tapes in the car (I don't know who I'm kidding considering that last time we went, I did that too, and ended up making a fool of myself while Hubby just pointed and grunted and got us whatever we needed, aaaannnndddd I've been speaking English since I was four years old and yet people still tell me I have a "cute litttle accent" and occasionally that I "sound like JLo", never mind the fact that I am not Puerto Rican nor from the Bronx). I have planned my Paris outfits ("By Day" and "By Night"...all black and grey and as chic as my closet contents and fashion imagination can create). I have made lists (mostly typed, some even laminated) for all the sitters. I have mapped out the Parisien addresses of the best consignment shops and coolest bars. I have dutifully doled out vitamins and smothered antibacterial gel and made sure everyone's immune system is in peak working condition. And then, I have prayed a little and panicked a little and worried a little and done little happy dances in my head that I will be in Paris...Paris!

I recognize that couple...not quite so fresh-faced anymore, but still in awe of our bonne fortune.

Never underestimate the power of a little body glitter and some wings...

Parenting can take you to extremes...heavenly joy one minute, hellish frustration the next. Your days can become a blur of lunchboxes, birthday parties, soccer games, frantic mornings, and endless bedtimes. Being a parent almost defines you. Your life revolves around these precious little beings.

.

.

Which is why it's really nice, every once in a while, to swap the holiday-themed t-shirt and hair clip for some stilettos and eye glitter...

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Admittedly, it took a strong cocktail to get me to walk out of the house like that...but boy, did it do wonders for my self-esteem (and it didn't hurt my marriage much). I'm not one to quote pop stars (I swear), but maybe Usher knows what he's talking about when he sings the "DJ's got us fallin' in love again." 'Cause for a few hours, we sure didn't feel like Mama and Daddy, and in spite of the splitting headache we fought off in the morning, trick or treating tonight was even more fun because we'd felt like we'd played hookie the night before.

Real life ain't sexy

There's a reason couples have more sex while on vacation.
Vacation is sexy.
Real life? Not so much.
On vacation, there's no laundry piles, lunchboxes, piles of unopened mail, alarm clocks.
The only To-Do's are sightseeing, eating, shopping, sleeping, and romancing.


We've only been back to our Real Life for a week (and it hasn't even been the full-blown version, since the boys haven't started school yet), and already some of the friskiness is gone.


During the summer, it was all about "What do you wanna do tomorrow?" or "Do you wanna open a bottle of wine tonight?" or "When can your mom have the kids again overnight?"


There were full days on the beach, Just Us, with picnic lunches, cheesy magazines, lots of sunblock, and even more vodka.


There were nights of getting all dressed up: over-the-top smoky eye and glittery liner, patent leather red stilettos, and way-too-short-for-a-mom-over-35-mini-skirts...and then dancing the night away.


There were early evenings conspiratorially rushing the bedtime routines so we could then sneak into our loft, with red wine and cheese and lingerie and John Mayer.


But now?


Now, the luxury is pizza standing up at the kitchen counter (only 2 small slices...I know, I know, I've gotta lose those summer pounds!), Blockbuster rentals, and 2 exhausted back-to-work teachers/parents trying to get back into the routine, snuggling into bed to actually sleep.


I've read it a million times: when you're married with children, you have to schedule sex.


Yeah. That's real hot.


So, yes, I know, my last few (and I do mean "few") posts have all been about how great my summer has been and how lazy and indulgent I've been, and now, here I am just complaining and whining about it being over. I know most of you are thinking I'm a spoiled ingrate who does not even appreciate the fact that she has the 2 months off with Hubby ever year.


But I'm not really being whiny, and I'm not an ingrate. Just the opposite. I'm incredibly grateful for the past several weeks, and am actually feeling like I'm almost back in the swing of things with work and life in general. I'm not even pouting about it (too much) anymore.


But the fact is, I miss my sexy summer life...where the freedom and sun and frivolity and extra babysitting contributed to my libido.


So back to my last post and my new (school) year resolutions...
I've got to find ways to sneak in the sexiness. Somewhere amidst the Lunchables and the lesson plans and the 5:00 a.m. alarms, I've got to make an effort to remember the heat of summer.

Greasy cheeseburgers + salty fries + ice cream = Unexpected joy

Image courtesy of photobucket

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I am a girl who loves pomp and circumstance: when I make plans, I like them to be big.

I am a girl who loves routine: my weekdays follow a very set, disciplined pattern.

But earlier this week, I threw routine and discipline out the door, and I learned that the simplest of plans can make you feel pretty damned happy.

Hubby and I cancelled our workouts and plans for a healthy, home-cooked meal. Instead, we put the boys down a little bit earlier, got take-out from the local burger joint and ice cream shop, and watched half of the first season of "Sex and the City."

As we sat there in our pajamas, munching on extra salty, extra crispy fries, the grease from the double cheeseburgers dripping down our hands, laughing over Big and Carrie's first meeting, we realized we were quite happy.

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We are lucky to have babysitting regularly enough that we have quality time together often, but...our nights usually consist of at least semi-luxurious outings, involving overpriced cocktails and fabulous shoes (SATC on the mind, perhaps?). If we have an opportunity to do something, we often feel the pressure to do something major.

And our regular weeknights are very carefully planned: we watch what we eat and rarely skip a work-out because then it throws off our week (and my weight), and we have most afternoons scheduled down to the minute because, well, because when you have two small children chaos occurs naturally so a routine tends to keep things at least slightly semi-organized and pseudo-controlled.

But that night's spontaneous and silly plan felt luxurious and decadent. We giggled (literally) as we snuggled under my childhood Mickey Mouse comforter and felt like we were breaking all the rules. From the calories to the viewing selection, the entire evening felt irresponsibly and deliciously undisciplined.

That night has carried me through the rest of the week. I felt like we were co-conspirators, beating the system, somehow. The frivolity and simplicity of the evening made me realize that sometimes you can find joy in the most unexpected and simplest of things...and a couple of cheeseburgers.

Happy

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Today is our wedding anniversary.

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We don't have any big plans. We don't have babysitting. We didn't buy each other any expensive gifts.

Instead, we woke up together, hugged sleepily in the kitchen, and got ready for work. We dressed our boys. We fed them Cheerios. In the afternoon, we will take the boys to swimming class, then to McDonald's, and come home to watch a little "Snow White." Then we will put them to bed. We will open a bottle (or three) of red wine. We will huddle in our love nest of a room. We will exchange traditional anniversary gifts (bronze or pottery for the 8th year), and we will just be.

Usually, I like a lot of pomp and circumstance. I like big. I like loud. I like a fuss.

This year, a fuss was not possible or practical. And I was okay with that. Because when we embraced this morning, Hubby mumbled a sleepy "I love you," followed with "I'm happy."

"I'm happy."
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So simple. So major. And I realized, at that moment, that I am, too.
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Blissfully happy.

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Content.

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Our lives are hectic and busy and exhausting and stressful. We do not run away to New York or Paris like we used to. We do not have money to blow every weekend at expensive restaurants. We do not go to Happy Hour on a weeknight and get a couple of hours of sleep before going in to work the next day. Sometimes, we don't even have the energy to speak to each other at the end of the day.

But we are Happy.
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We've made these little boys...these two little rascals who drive us nuts almost every day.

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We've made a family.

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And even on the worst days, on the days when we wonder why we even wanted any of the grown up stuff, why we didn't just keep traveling the world and living our carefree lives, we're in it together. We're a team, the 2 of us.

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Solid. Lucky. Grateful. In love.

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Happy.

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Photography by www.gilcelia.com

Going (almost) "commando" (Updated: the winner is...!)

Once, while getting my hair highlighted, I announced to my stylist that my husband "doesn't let me wear Spanx."

The woman sitting in the salon chair next to me, who apparently decided that if you are getting your hair done at the same time then you are entitled to participate in each other's conversations, piped in with: "Oh honeeeey, and you let your husband tell you what to do?"

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Now, anyone who knows me...or more importantly, knows my husband...would scoff appropriately here.
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Fortunately, my hairstylist did.
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It's not that Hubby does or doesn't "let" me do anything. That's not the kind of relationship we have (nor the kind of people we are), but it is true, that there are certain things he feels really, really strongly about, and Spanx is one of them.
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Do you know Spanx? Perhaps you own several and are already planning the persuasive comment you will leave for me after reading this post, telling me what I'm missing out on. For the rest of you who may not be so sure what I'm talking about, let me give you the short version. It's a high-end designer girdle. There are various styles and they all do essentially the same thing: suck, smoothe, and shape. Every time Kim Kardashian steps out for the night in one of those incredibly tight and slutty dresses of hers? She's got one under there. For sure. They really are supposed to be magical: they suck everything in (think: cycling spandex shorts made for any and all parts of your body) and eliminate all lumps, bumps, dimps, and rolls. They make you look thinner, tighter, leaner.
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So why, I am sure you are wondering, wouldn't I want to wear one of these contraptions for Hubby so I can look oh-so-much-hotter in my date night dresses?

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"Cause when I come home and want to take that dress off I don't want to be confronted with something a 60-year-old would wear. I don't wanna find a wet suit. The flaws you all obsess over? Trust me, we don't see 'em. And the ones we do? We don't really care about. Men know what you have under there, and we're just damn happy to be spending time with it."
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Hubby doesn't ask for a lot. He's not a demanding kinda guy. But he does ask that if I don't feel that I can wear the dress without something "minimal" (his word) under it, then just don't buy it.
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Esentially, if my outfit and my lingerie got into a fight, Hubby would be rooting for the undergarments.

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As much as this guy does for me, I can live with this. Believe me, I have been tempted. I have stood in the dressing room, a hot dress clinging to my 37-year-old Cuban Mommy body, and I have thought: "Oh, almost... If I could vacuum myself into one of those Spanx things, it just might work..."

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But then I remember his requests. And I remember my drawers full of lacey, flimsy, wispy nothings, and how the truth is, I do feel pretty sexy in them, especially on the days I don't stand too long obsessing in front of the full-length mirror. (And, if you've ever tried one of those things on, you know that whatever it's sucking in has gotta go somewhere, so you tend to have a bit of my-cup-runneth-over-effect, and I don't think I'm willing to create back cleavage in order to make my ass look smaller).
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So flimsy it is. And fortunately, I've recently found a whole new realm of flimsy: Cosabella. I'm not usually into the whole random product review or giveaways, but really, when a high end lingerie line that has a collection inspired by "Sex and the City" contacts me, I'm not about to say 'no.' And when my thong arrived in the mail that was promised to be the lightest, thinnest, best no-panty-line panty in the market, Hubby was not about to say 'no.' This thing was like the anti-girdle. And Hubby likey. And since it was comfortable, me likey too.

Source: Cosabella

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So I sacrifice celebrity-red-carpet-like perfection (as if!) so Hubby is happy when he comes home. I may be missing out on a whole lot of amazing outfits that I could've worn if only I'd given in to the miracle of Spanx, but at the end of the night, I don't think he's obsessing over my lumpy thighs or my still too-soft abs...at least not in a bad way.

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Giveaway! If you'd like to dare to strip away the shapewear and give some flimsiness a try, here's what to do: 1)Visit the Cosabella site and check out the goods; 2) Come back here and comment on your favorite item/s; and 3) Tell me why you should win a Cosabella Aire Set (Thong OR Hotpant AND matching Bra, valued at over $70). Deadline: March 4th.