Yesterday was our two year anniversary – YAY US! – so I’m wearing my fancy underwear, my very, very last clean pair of undies. I’ll go commando tomorrow until my laundry is dried! 🙂 I’ve been on a laundry strike lately as I just haven’t “felt” like doing it. Hubby has offered to do it for me… but eh. I don’t mind piles of laundry in my ill-state. 🙂 Hubby surprised me on our anniversary morning by telling me to put the girls down for an early nap so we could get them to Grandma’s and to dinner on time! I WAS SO SURPRISED!!! He usually has golf on Tuesdays but took it off. YAY!!!! So not only did he take me to dinner, I also got a lovely card, my favorite and hard-to-find flowers (moonshadow carnations), and two DMB CD’s (the new Groo Grux & a live CD we don’t already own)… yep. That’s “it”. He really put a lot of thought into our anniversary. I luff him. 🙂 It’s been a really difficult two years learning to live with each other, raising twins, learning to share a bed. I wouldn’t change a thing but being married was not like turning on a switch. There’s a lot of give and take.
I love having my own bed. I sleep so much better if I’m alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love falling asleep in the crook of my husband’s shoulder/arm. I love waking up and seeing his sparkling blue eyes from across the pillows. I love scooting my butt against his when we turn away from each other. I love when our hands weld together beneath the covers. There are many nice things about sharing a bed. There are also some not-so-fabulous things about sharing a bed. Stealing of covers (I’m also guilty of this), stealing of space (guilty as charged), and once there was a memorable bad attack of gas (not guilty, it was all him).
And then there’s his girlfriend.
What?! His girlfriend??? As part of his wedding gifts from me, I purchased him a body pillow. He really wanted one. I even bought a cozy velour pillowcase for her. To make her softer and cozier. I thought I was being such a good wife. I didn’t realize that SHE would take up so much space in our bed. I jest lovingly when I call her his girlfriend and refer to her as “SHE” (always dramatically) – but sometimes, I do hate her. She takes up space and often ‘sleeps’ between us. Thus, she is my husband’s girlfriend.
I love my husband but I always tell him how much I’d love to have my own bed, right next to his – I just need space. He says that once I get big enough, he will move my old full-sized bed into our bedroom. We’ll mush them as close together as they’ll go and he can visit me in my bed as we please. 🙂 I just need space to stretch my body out. I’m one of those sleepers that’s either in a ball or taking up every inch of mattress that I can. Several times, I’ve woken up with my head at the bottom of the bed. I’m an odd bird – but you’ve probably realized this by now.
My grandparents had two beds in their room. Two big king sized beds, right next to each other – they were married since 1951 (?) until my grandmother died of cancer in 1991. They also had separate bathrooms. Things were different back then, but perhaps they held a key to a long, happy, love-filled marriage. Perhaps separate beds shmushed together & private bathrooms were one of those keys. I like to think so. A little mystery and separation is good for the heart. Plus, if they wanted to cuddle all they needed to do was roll over a couple times. 🙂 My Papa loved my Nana with every bit of his heart & soul, still tearing up in his eyes when he spoke of her sixteen years later before his death. It brought me great comfort when he died to know that he was finally with her again, where he wanted to be for the past sixteen years. I clung to that idea when he passed; I cling to it now. I miss him greatly. He lived with our family for the last six years of his life & I treasure that experience. Difficult at times, it enriched my life. (Okay, I’m getting way too sad, and now I’m crying. I didn’t cry at his funeral, perhaps from the shock of losing one of my best friends two weeks earlier and my other best friend’s father – a second dad to me – the same day my Papa died. It was the worst two weeks of my life (three funerals of three very significant people in my life in 9 days – perhaps some day I’ll write of this, currently it’s all still too painful to verbalize properly…. blah….) and by the time we got around to Papa’s funeral, I was frankly cried out. I cry all the time now for him. Even when I wasn’t a hormonal basketcase. I miss him.)
*sigh*… Moving on…
Not much has been happening here since my rant on Quest Diagnostics… the girls went to grandma’s house for the day. Wednesdays are our usual Mommy’s Day Out/Grandma’s Day In. I dropped them off promptly at 11:30am and went right back home to sit on my patootie and do nothing! Actually, I did half a load of my laundry (I’ll move it to the dryer…tomorrow?). Mainly underwear and sweatpants and my favorite t-shirt. I got it for my 12th birthday (yep, 12th) and while it WAS big on me then (think nightgown), now it’s perfect. Ratty, worn-in, and perfect. After devouring my leftovers, I went to ‘my’ salon and got my eyebrows waxed. I also got my lip waxed. I’m lucky to have very light colored hair so my “mustache” (And please pronounce that: moose-tache. It’s more fun to say it that way. And makes it sound less manly.) isn’t super-noticable. It was the first time I’ve had my lip waxed. I normally do the cream-removal thing but I remember from the last time I was pregnant it really f-d with my skin (like, burning pain) and you’re not really supposed to use it when you’re pregnant. So, I thought I’d take advantage of my favorite esthetician (? is that the right word, I’m pretty sure I spelled it right!) and get the mustache taken off. OUCH. OUCH OUCH OUCH. It hurt, for like…. only two minutes. I’m sooooooooooooo getting that done every time I get my eyebrows done. (I try to get them done once a month. Again, I’m lucky I don’t grow hair like an Amazon Woman.) It’s way easier than avoiding my husband like the Black Plague while I’m in the bathroom with hair-removal cream on my beard.
I’m still pretty sick but trying to mind-over-matter this all-day sickness crapola. I got a really bad cold this weekend. I thought it was a sinus infection (I’ve never had one!) and spent the whole Sunday in bed. 24 hours. I was sick as a dog. I spent Monday blowing my nose every five minutes. It looked like I had spent my life snorting coke (something I never have, never will, and am totally anti. I told you before, I don’t do “drugs”). It was so red and raw, ICK. Tuesday went better and today, although my throat is quite scratchy – I did not feel like death. Yay me! 😉 I go to the doctor next Wednesday to review my bloodwork and have another ultrasound. I’m pretty convinced now that I had a three-hour period and it wasn’t just spotting. Anything’s possible, right? This would explain for the baby measuring six weeks and not the nine weeks we thought it would. While this still might not be the case, in my paranoid worry-worting little mind… it helps to believe this is why. I’m still worried I’ll miscarry but less so than I was last week. YAY ME for overcoming my friggin’ crazy-brain.
I need to stop writing and go to bed. Nighty-night! 🙂