Here’s to eight years, (soon-to-be) two kids, a dog, a house and more fun than one could ever imagine.  Love you, forever and always.

As I try to do just that, I realize the house is out of order again.  It’s nagging me.

• Dawson has toys scattered across the living room floor and I’m trying to fight the urge to pick them up.
• The mail is piled up on the side table, waiting for me to sort through it.
• My craft corner is so disorganized and it’s driving me crazy.
• Dawson’s room looks like the aftermath of a tornado.
• My bathroom counter is cluttered with cosmetics and hair products (which I’m not using because I’m too tired to care what I look like these days.  Sad but true.)
• The kitchen is actually clean, but dishes are still in the drying rack waiting to be put away.

Last Saturday I spent the day in a cleaning frenzy, but it was all in vain.  I came down with a nasty virus the next day and did not have the energy to maintain the house.

But you know what really ticks me off?  The fact that my husband didn’t even bother to step in while I was on my death bed.  (Okay, I’m being dramatic.  I know.)

I just don’t understand why it’s so hard for him to actually help me.  Sure, he’ll do dishes and laundry,  but he never puts the stuff away.  It’s so half-assed.

When he gets home from work he does what he wants to do.  Lawn care, gardening, puttering in the garage, whatever  — and I don’t complain.  But when I ask for help he gets bent out of shape.  Sometimes I think he thinks that because he works outside the home he shouldn’t have to do anything else.

This is total crap.  While he’s doing his stuff, I’m the one parenting Dawson and trying to get housework done at the same time.  This is like building a house during a tornado.  It cannot be done.  Dawson can be very demanding.  He’s an only child right now, and he’s gotten his parents’ undivided attention all his life.  I can distract him for short periods of time, but when he’s bored he lets me know.

To be honest, I feel like my husband and I are in the middle of a power struggle; each one of us is trying to be in control.  We’re not working together.  We’re both very stubborn, too.

It shouldn’t be so hard to communicate and cooperate.  It should be easy to just hash it out and come up with a plan to get stuff done.  But, why do I feel like I’m the only one willing to change? Why do I feel like the this burden will forever be on my shoulders?  Why do I feel like my husband just doesn’t get it?  Why do I feel like he doesn’t appreciate all that I do?

Knowing myself too well, I’ll start cleaning like crazy.  I’ll be crabby and resentful the rest of the weekend.  Knowing my husband, he won’t understand why I’m mad.  And I won’t tell him because I hate confrontation.  We’ll continue this power struggle until the end of time.

Should I just suck it up and do what needs to be done?  What would you do?

—————————-

Don’t forget!  Today is the last day to enter the Evenflo Comfort Select giveaway over at Dana reviews!  Comments will be open until 11:59 p.m.  Go enter!  And good luck!

It all started with our Thanksgiving plans.  Sometimes we go to my parents’ house, once or twice we visited Doug’s parents’ house and this year we decided to forego it all.  I was in no mood to deal with the families this year.  I know it’s wrong of me to think that way, but I’ve been too busy these days, and being with my family can be stressful.  I knew I’d probably lose my mind in front of my parents or in-laws.  They can thank me later for sparing them this torture.  Doug and Dawson weren’t as lucky.

Because we didn’t make plans to go to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, we decided to compromise and made plans to go to my mom and dad’s house on Sunday to watch the Packer game.  I was looking forward to it.  Football watching is one of my favorite activities, especially with my dad and my brother Nathan.  We’re diehard Cheeseheads, and Packer games are tons of fun when watched with them.  (Except when our GBP’s lose, then we over-analyze all that went wrong and which plays McCarthy should have used to clinch the win.)

Needless to say, Sunday morning got off on the right foot when I overslept and missed church.  I had to work that morning, too, so I was already late in starting my rotation.  I plowed through it, trying to be done by noon, but at quarter to the hour I still wasn’t done.  I knew I’d need another half hour or so to finish up, and I asked Doug to call my dad and tell him we’d be late.

Of course, my request went in one ear and out the other.  Doug and Dawson were laying on the couch watching Spongebob (He’s baaaaaaack!), and I was furious.

I tried to ignore the anger and I took my laptop to the bedroom to finish my work in a quieter setting.  Then I lost my internet connection.  It took twenty minutes to figure out that the router was acting stupid, but after resetting things, all was well.

That’s when Doug asked if I was ready to go.  I blew my top.  I lost my mind and began yelling at my beloved.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?  I asked you to call my Dad and say we’d be late.”

“Yeah, but you know your dad, he’ll be mad we’re not there.”

“Fine, then go without me.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say when he asks where you are?”

“Tell him I’m fricken working you mo-ron.”

“Why are you getting so flipping mad at me?”

He was standing there with this look on his face, as if he had no clue as to why I was so pissed off.  I wanted to hit him over the head with a baseball bat cast iron frying pan. Suddenly I broke down into tears.  I was so frustrated because I felt like a ton of bricks was strapped to my shoulders.

My husband too often fails to acknowledge all the things I do for the benefit of our family.

Sometimes I wonder if he thinks that because he goes off to work (full time) each day, that his job is more important than mine.  What about me?  What about what I do?

Not only do I work from home, I work part-time for a family friend, I raise our son and I make sure this house is functioning.  Doesn’t he appreciate that?  Why can’t he acknowledge my sacrifices and my accomplishments?  Why is it so difficult for him to help me out more around here?

I know he does what he can, but honestly, I’m the one who’s stretched too thin.  I just wish he could truly understand that my role is just as important as his, and that I pull my own weight.  And then some.

Is that too much to ask?

Maybe I just need a time-out.  In Hawaii.  On the beach.  Yeah, that’s what I need.  A time-out.

(I know it’s not good to have these meltdowns, especially with the holidays near.  I just think I need to start focusing on what’s really important in my life.  And maybe I’ll tell everything else to take a hike.)

That isn’t to say that Happily Ever After doesn’t exist. We all remember meeting our soulmates, and how good our relationships were in the beginning. We cherished every kiss, every touch, and hung on each other’s every word. During courtship we went out of our way to care for the other person.

The romantic phase of marriage, that post honeymoon feeling that all the world is in love, you remember it, don’t you? I vividly recall those blissful moments in my marriage; long walks in the park, lazy days of lounging in bed on a Saturday morning, curling up on the couch to watch bad TV with not a care in the world. The only priorities in our lives were each other.

Fast forward a few years, add a baby or two and suddenly new demands are placed upon us. And let’s face it, who has time to be romantic when a screaming little person needs to be fed or changed? I’m not saying children are to blame for mediocre relationships, but when such a huge transition occurs it’s only natural to neglect each other little by little.

Why did we lose the magic in our marriages and relationships, and how do we get it back?

I was reading the book Relationship Magic: The Secret to Happily Ever After, which author, Dr. Edythe Denkin, PhD sent for me to check out, and I was amazed with the clever “fairy tale” approach she uses to help couples return to that state of bliss we loved so early in our relationships. I’m not a big fan of “self-help” books, but Denkin’s unique style was nonabrasive and her advice is easy to absorb.

Using fictional characters James and Cinda, the prince and princess of a faraway kingdom, Denkin highlights the beginning of their fairy tale romance that gradually dissipates to a disillusioned marriage. The prince and princess each have their own perception of how their marriage “should be,” and with the added responsibilities of children, keeping a household, work stresses and the mundane of day-to-day life, they begin to feel helpless. As each partner grows and changes, they start to resent the relationship, yet cannot find the way to express how they feel to each other.

Using the techniques of Imago Relationship Therapy, Denkin takes the reader on a journey through the marriage of James and Cinda while learning how to abandon our own relationship fears and unconscious behaviors we learn in childhood. Denkin believes that we learn to love our partners by watching how our parents loved each other, and that sometimes these examples do not work in our own relationships.

While reading this book, I began to put my own marriage into perspective and began to see how easy it can be to allow our relationships to erode as we focus on other priorities and personal needs. I honestly believe my marriage is happy and healthy, but after seven years (and being together a total of ten years) I can see how important it is to reinforce the foundation of my relationship.

At the end of each chapter, Denkin lists questions for the reader to ponder, such as “Do you remember the way acted and reacted towards your partner during the romantic phase of your marriage?” and “Do you feel responsible for your partner’s happiness?”

Once I began to truly answer these questions, I was amazed to learn that even the most solid of marriages still need to be nurtured and cared for. Denkin’s approach to bringing the magic back into our relationships is so down to earth I couldn’t help but love her book.

My favorite question she asks is “What is your prescription for happiness?” I’m still pondering that one…but I believe it begins with a loving relationship and a rock solid foundation.

For more information about this book, click here.

Okay, so maybe I’m spoiled. Just a little. At least I’m able to admit it. I married a rare breed and I know it. Most of my gal pals tell me their partners rarely lift a finger around the house and none of these men can really cook let alone put a load of laundry in the wash.

However, once I became a work-at-home-mom, my Queen Mum status flew right out the window. Now I’m Queen of the Vacuum and the Daily Doer of Dishes.

I’m not complaining. I have more time to complete these tasks now that I don’t spend 8 hours of my day in a fluorescent-lighted office across town.

Doug still does the cooking because, let’s face it, as a former line cook, he’s better at it. And he likes to do it. But my only complaint is the freakin’ mess he makes in the kitchen. The mess that I clean up. I don’t mind, because I’d rather do dishes than burn dinner. But why do men use ten times more kitchen gadgets than women?

When I cook, I use as little as possible, often drawing a sink filled with soapy water so that I can wash things as I go. But Doug? No. He makes the biggest mess with pans and knives and cutting boards and measuring cups scattered all over the counters.

Am I just being picky? Or do all men do this?

However, what I don’t enjoy is the way they constantly leave the same things in the middle of our living room, over and over again.

Like Doug’s shoes! He takes them off leaves them in the middle of the floor, and then I end up tripping on them as I zoom from room to room on my broom cleaning and dusting and putting things away.

Or Dawson’s toys! It doesn’t matter how many times I put a certain toy away after he’s finished playing with it, the toy magically makes it’s way back to the hot zone next to my husband’s size 12 boats.

Or Murphy’s bones! He has two nylon bones that he chews on and leaves them all over the house. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly broken an ankle because I’ve accidentally stepped on one of them?

I’ve actually fallen into a routine. Wake up at 7:30. Eat half a bagel and an omelette. Work online for four hours. Finish work and then yell at Dawson to pick up his shit. Put all the pillows and cushions back on the couch. Follow the kid around until all his toys are back where they belong. Dust and vacuum the living room. Blow up the damn TV that always seems to have SpongeBob on. Make all the beds. Vacuum the bedrooms. Clean the bathroom. Do the dishes, sweep the kitchen floor and take the garbage out. When the husband comes home from work, escape to the gym. Rinse and repeat as necessary, seven days a week.

And then in the midst of all of this, my husband uses the very last roll of toilet paper and doesn’t tell me. I don’t discover this until I have to pee and realize I have nothing to wipe with. So I shake myself dry and do you know how infuriating it is to shake female your parts over the toilet seat and hear your butt cheeks flap? And you wonder why I go to the gym obsessively?

So this weekend, I told my husband how angry I was that he didn’t tell me we were out of toilet paper. He gave me his usual excuse that he forgot or maybe he said he didn’t tell me on purpose to drive me over the edge, I’m not sure because I was so mad I started to hyperventilate.

Anyway, as I’m calmly discussing the situation screaming, my husband, who is much taller than me says, “Wow…are you getting gray.”

I can feel my face getting hot. He inspects the top of my head. “Holy hell, woman, you’ve got a dozen gray hairs on the top of your head.”

I do not think this is funny. Not funny at all.

“If this is some stupid male tactic to distract me from what I was yelling at you about, it’s not going to…OUCH!” He plucked a hair from the top of my head. Sure as rain, the hair he pulled was as white as snow.

“Okay, so that’s just one…OWWW! Stop pulling hairs!” I look to see the second white hair in his hand. I began to cry.

“There’s like, ten more. You want me to get those out, too?” my husband asked.

“Are you fucking nuts? An army of silver hairs will come back to replace the two you just killed.”

Through my tears, I got up, put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and started out the door.

“Where are you going?” my husband asked.

“I’m going to Wal-Mart,” I said. “To get toilet paper.”

“Don’t forget the hair dye!” he shouted after me.

Not funny. So very not funny. I’m only twenty-nine! I was prepared for gray at 40, but not at my age. I’m still young. Right?

The weekend has been filled with non-stop cleaning and picking up after Doug and Dawson. I’m not thrilled about this at all. Every day I vacuum and clean up the house, and every day one of those persons with a penis leaves more stuff for me to put back where it belongs. Is this what I’ve become? An obsessed, clean-freak wife and mom? I hope not. That would drive me crazy.

On Friday, Doug allowed me the privilege of time away from the three-year-old to go shopping and get a hair cut. I ended up bringing Dawson along because I didn’t have the patience to deal with his screaming fit. Twenty minutes later, in the car, Dawson fell asleep. I went to the bank and then turned around and dropped Dawson off at home.

My hair is short. I’ll post a picture very soon. I promise. And if I forget, will one of you please remind me?

Saturday I went to the gym and worked out for an hour while the Doodlebug stayed home with Doug. I’ve been diligent the last few weeks in making certain I work out on the elliptical for 30 minutes, five times a week. I think I’ve lost four pounds, but my scale is old and possibly broken, so who knows what the right number is. Yesterday it said I weighed 139 pounds and I almost passed out. I weigh much more than 139 pounds. Try 490. Heh.

Yesterday, I went to a supper club called Wander Inn with my sister, brother and parents to hear my uncle Mikey’s polka band, The Paper City Sounds, play music from 2-6 p.m. Dawson came along, too. He loves polkas and his Great Uncle Mikey. It was fun. I love watching the adorable old couples bopping around the floor. They look so much in love after all those years and it makes me smile.

I got a cute video of Dawson dancing a waltz with my father. It’s so sweet, and it reminds me of when I was little and loved dancing with my daddy. I think I might post it for your viewing pleasure.

Which brings me to today. I’m twenty-nine today. Twenty-freakin-nine. Years old. I have to say it over and over again, just to make sure I believe it myself.

I thought I would be more freaked out than I am, but surprisingly I’m not. Yet. It could still happen. I’ve been freaking out about getting older since I turned twenty-six. I don’t know why. I know it’s stupid. I’m still young. Right?

Nothing else to report quite yet. Alleluia! Dawson is officially potty-trained. I started the training boot camp at the end of December and you may remember my frustrations. January was rough. He had a few accidents. February was better, he still wore a pull-up for most of the day because I didn’t want to clean up messes. And now the boy has moved to underpants all day and pull-ups only at night. Can I say how much I love not changing diapers? I LOVE NOT CHANGING DIAPERS! My new gripe? The words, “Mommy, I need you to come wipe my butt!”

Yeah…that’s not my favorite part. But I’ll take that task over diaper changing any day.

Well…I’ve got deadlines and things that need doing, but I promise a real, coherent, interesting blog post tomorrow. (And if I don’t deliver, y’all can kick my ass!)

…my husband and I will put on our party clothes, the baby sitter will be here to watch Dawson and we’ll have an amazing dinner (rain check from the Anniversary Date that was canceled).  And if we’re lucky, the Doodlebug will be asleep when we arrive home.  You know…because I’ll have had a few drinks and I will not want to deal with a little boy who likes to stay up past his bed time.

Seven thirty really needs to hurry up.

A bed of roses, our marriage is not, but my husband helps remove the thorns (especially the ones on my arse. I’d do the same for him, but his arse is much hairier).

All kidding aside, I adore you, Douglas. Even when you drive me batshit crazy over ridiculous things, I still love you more than I ever imagined a woman could love a man.

Six years ago, this exact date — Saturday, October 13th — we pledged our love for one another. We made our vows to love, honor and cherish each other until death.

(Holy heck, that’s a long time.)

I love you, Goofball. Happy Anniversary.

My house is a disaster. I don’t think I’ve done any real cleaning since Dawson’s birthday party almost a month ago. When I woke up this morning I had a terrible headache because I realized there were several hundred thousand toys scattered between the living room and Dawson’s bedroom and I haven’t cared enough to pick them up.

Dawson hasn’t been feeling well since yesterday. His daycare person told me he complained about a stomach ache and that his head felt very warm. When she took his temperature he cried the entire time, but her reading was only 100 degrees. Sure, it’s warm, but not necessarily cause for concern.

On the way home Dawson said, “Mumma, I has a headache on my arm.”

I chuckled a little because I’m sure he’s heard me say that I have headaches quite often, and he probably assumes when something hurts it’s a headache. Even on his little arm.

He fell asleep in my arms last night while we were watching Dancing with the Stars. Each time I tried to put him in his bed he’d wake up, whimper and say, “I just wanna hold you, Mumma.”

How can I say no to that?

Today he’s home with Daddy and I do hope whatever his ailment is, that it leaves his body soon.

Work has been a constant game of catch up. I’ve got stacks of paperwork on my desk and I can’t seem to talk myself into getting down to business. I’m still tired from the weekend and I realized that I barely get six hours of sleep each night. I know many people survive on less, but I’m such a grizzly bear if I haven’t had eight hours of shuteye. Perhaps I’m suffering from perpetual overtiredness. (I know that probably isn’t a word.)

Doug and I will celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary on Saturday. Six years isn’t a very long time but it sure feels like sixty. Hard to believe we were young and foolish once upon a time. Now we’re older (obviously) and wiser (maybe) and have loads of responsibility. Like housework and bills and child rearing.

I decided to take Friday off and tackle the chores. Dawson’s room is the worst. Anyone have any great tips for keeping a toddler’s room clean and organized? I’ve already tried to create a playroom in the basement for most of the toys, but we still end up with Little People and several million matchbox cars (or maybe they’re hotwheels) on the floor everywhere we look. Sometimes I think those little people procreate in the night.

Friday evening, Doug is taking me out to dinner. Nothing fancy as he claims he can’t afford me anymore. I told him I’m worth it and if he needs to take out a loan I’m okay with that.

Saturday afternoon, Dawson and I are going on a date. We’ve got tickets to see Go! Diego! Go! Live! in Appleton and we’re going to visit the Arboretum, the Fox Cities Children’s Museum and the Houdini Museum as well. It should be a fun day. Doug is stuck working because he used vacation days to come to Green Lake with me. It’s a trade-off I was willing to make.

So there you have it, all the things I’ve tried to say but never found the time. Also, I’ve been slacking on reading blogs the last two weeks. I am doing my best to get back on track. I miss you all!