Rocks In My Dryer

It's Like Being Married To a GPS System

...It was at this point that I reminded him that it’s a family vacation and not a CIA mission.  He laughed good-naturedly, but then he mumbled something about synchronizing our watches...  {read more at Parenting.com}

Where the Wind Comes Sweepin' Down the Plains

I didn't grow up in Oklahoma, so unlike my own children, I didn't have the benefit of years of Oklahoma history in school.  It's a shame, really, because the interesting lore and culture of my adopted state endears it to me more and more all the time. 

I mean, there are 306 million people living in the United States, but only three-and-a-half million of us get to live in a state that actually inspired a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.  Not to mention a Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman movie.  (I loved that movie.  It came out in 1992, before I was a married woman and before Tom was a couch-jumper.  And let me tell you that it was very pleasant sitting a dark theater, watching a close-up shot of Tom whispering "Marry me, Shannon."  "Okay," I whispered back.)

When Hubs first told me we'd be having a romantic anniversary getaway a few miles outside of Guthrie, Oklahoma, I was skeptical.  "What's in Guthrie?" I asked.

A lot, it turns out.  It was the original state capital of Oklahoma, and it was the headquarters of the famous Land Run of 1889.  This picturesque little town is home to a huge historic district, meticulously maintained and restored.  During our trip, Hubs and I spent an afternoon taking in the history.

 

 

I have an unhealthy obsession with historical markers.  My idea of a dream vacation is to stop at every single one of them:

We stopped at an old drugstore that had been turned into a museum.  It was an interesting look at the  pharmaceutical history of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Half the remedies in there included "cocaine" and "heroin" as ingredients.  No wonder Aunt Eller was so moody. (I also saw with my very own eyes a particular piece of turn-of-the-century medical equipment that is horribly seared into my brain for all eternity.  I'll spare you the details, but let's just say we should all thank our lucky stars not to have been constipated in 1903.)

Parts of the original brick sidewalks and streets could be seen throughout the district.  Together with the old buildings, it was hard not to let the imagination run wild.

I turned to Hubs.  "Do you realize there might have been a gunfight RIGHT HERE?  Somebody might have been shot to death RIGHT HERE." 

Hey look, another historical marker, and this is a good one:

Hubs turned to me.  "Do you realize Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman staked their claim RIGHT HERE?"

Cheeky. 

Romancin'

Last week Hubs and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary, and he surprised me with a weekend getaway of such perfection that all future weekend getaways will surely develop inferiority complexes. 

"We're going to a place called Aaron's Gate," he told me, "a few miles outside of Guthrie, Oklahoma."

(I am not a native Oklahoman.  I had never heard of Guthrie.  It's such an interesting and picturesque town that I'll have to wait and give it a post all its own, very soon.)

Hubs and I have stayed in some lovely places during our years together, but this place takes the cake.  Photos, of course, won't do it justice, but I'll do my best.

We headed in the general direction of Guthrie, Oklahoma, turning off the interstate to drive on about ten miles of this:

(I love roads like that, don't you?)

When we had officially reached The Middle Of Nowhere, we pulled up to the front gates:

I know--charming, isn't it?  Here's a close-up:

Once inside the gates, we wound through the woods:

...and we pulled up to our unassuming little cabin:

When we got out, we immediately noticed the quiet.  No traffic, no people, no sounds at all--just the birds, the wind, and the crickets.

We opened the door to the cabin, and this is what we found:

(Behind this armoire was the giant television and DVD library.  We watched a lot of movies, including the very excellent HBO series on John Adams.  Because, you know, nothing says "romance" like a bunch of men in wigs and tights declaring their independence from the King of England):

A hot tub in the screened-in porch.  My fingers are permanently pruned from all the soaking: 

They left us our dinner and the next day's breakfast in the fridge.  By this point, I was so smitten with the place that I half expected little mythical woodland creatures to show up and prepare the food for us: 

("WHY ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF A CHICKEN LAMP?" Hubs asked at this point.  Fair question.)

The weekend was perfect, and I have found my new favorite little spot.  We agreed that if someone couldn't relax in this quaint spot, then they just couldn't relax. 

Last picture, I promise, on our way back out of the gates as we left:

See?  Perfect.

Fifteen Years Ago Today

 

And I'd do it all again.

But My Lips Are Silky Soft

Last week Hubs was cleaning out my desk drawer.  Partly because he is good to me, and partly because it is his preference that when one pulls on a desk drawer, one might expect that the desk drawer be unencumbered enough to open.  Picky, picky.

"Hey," he called.  "You might want to come look at this."

Here's what he had found in my one desk drawer:

"I think you have a problem," he said. 

I pointed out that if I had a "problem", they would all be Carmex.  As there is a trend-breaking Burt's Bees throwing in the stash, I assured him, I do not have a "problem", I merely have a "preference". (And, it would appear, a tendency for losing lids.)

It Would Make Me Very Happy If You'd Read This Post. Thank You.

Let me tell you a little story.

Danny (not his real name, and you'll understand why in a minute) is a husband and father who wanted to do something special for his wife this Christmas.  They were both fed up with the materialistic emptiness the holidays often brought: "typical American Christmas—gizmos, gadgets, whatnots, and an oversized helping of turkey," as he calls it.

This was spurred, in part, by a trip to Africa in 2008.  When he saw the great need there, he knew he had to do something better with his money this Christmas. 

He and his wife agreed that they would spend no money on each other this year, instead sending as much as they could to the humanitarian efforts underway in the village Danny visited.  In place of material gifts to each other, they would make gifts for each other, gifts that didn't cost money--only effort and creativity.

He hatched a brilliant idea. 

His wife is the mother of small children, a season of life often fraught with discouragement and exhaustion.  He began asking some mothers he knew in real life to submit letters of encouragement to her, sharing their best bits of motherhood wisdom.  He planned to collect the letters to give to her Christmas morning.

Danny's idea was well-received by friends, but he began to realize his "mother network" was fairly small.  He wanted to broaden the scope of his idea and find a way for more women to encourage his wife.

The Mother Letter Project was born.

This is a simple blog that tells his family's story, and it invites women--strangers, friends, from all walks of life--to write a letter to his wife, encouraging her in her mothering journey.

He wrote to me to say that his wife is a faithful reader of my blog, and would I consider writing a letter for the project?

Um, well, seeing as how this is the sweetest thing I've ever heard in my whole life, YES, I will write a letter.  And not only will I write a letter, I'm going to tell every single one of you to write a letter, because did I mention that this is the sweetest thing I've ever heard in my whole life?  I can't decide which part of the story is more touching:  a husband going to such lengths to encourage his wife?  A family committed to changing the life of an African village?  A treasure trove of wisdom for mothers, all in one place?  The whole thing just makes me smile. 

Here is the blog Danny has set up to manage the project.  He has revealed as much information as he can without giving away his identity.  His wife is a participant in the blogospherre, and he doesn't want to ruin the surprise for her.  It's highly likely she is reading this very post, with no idea of the lovely gift waiting for her!

Oh, delicious irony, how I love you.

(Pssst.  If you think this might be your husband who is doing this, don't let on that you know.  Because I have corresponded with Danny, and let me tell you, your man LOVES you and is trying to crazy-hard to knock your socks off this Christmas.  Don't spoil it for him, okay?)

(And?  If it's not your husband doing this project, but you're dying to read the collection of letters, then you're in luck, because he'll e-mail you a copy of the finished document after Christmas. 

(I think everyone is going be looking all mushy at their husbands tonight.)

Though this whole thing started as a simple idea, a modest and thoughtful gift from one husband to one wife, it is quickly growing beyond that scope.  This project has the potential to encourage many mothers.  I want to be a part of it.  I hope you will too. 

If you'd like to participate in the Mother Letter Project, you can read the full instructions here.  Write a letter, even a quick one.  Encourage another mom.  Save a copy for your daughter or niece or neighbor down the street.  Heck, save a copy for you and read it back to yourself tomorrow, when you're about to pull your hair out.  If you have a blog, consider posting about this project.  Wouldn't it be fun to help Danny blow the top off this project?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a letter to write...

*update*  To answer a question that has trickled in a couple of times, yes, Danny knew ahead of time I was posting about this, and I consulted closely with him about how much information to include.  Some of you were concerned this would spoil the surprise for his wife--but don't worry, every bit of this was done with his permission and blessing.  He's actually overwhelmed by your generous response so far.  Please keep those letters rolling in!

OH NO HE DID NOT...

...OH BUT YES HE DID.

One evening last week, Hubs and I were sitting at a kids' school event.  He leaned over and asked me about my day; I rattled on and on about a new deadline and oh-I-got-a-phone-call-from-so-and-so and did-you-remember-to-mail-that check, et cetera, et cetera.

He listened politely.  When I finished, he asked, "Would you like to know what I did today?"

I nodded, distracted, watching the kids.

He continued.  "I bought two Barry Manilow concert tickets in Las Vegas, tenth row center."

I'm sorry, what did you just say?

"I said, I bought two Barry Manilow concert tickets in Las Vegas, tenth row center.  And two plane tickets, and a hotel room on the strip, and childcare is all arranged.  We leave in a few weeks."

And I giggled squealed screamed and planted a big, sloppy kiss on him RIGHT THERE in the school cafeteria.  Then I turned to Melanie, who was on my other side, and nearly scared her to death by grabbing her shoulders and shaking her and babbling incoherently.  I am happy to report that I did not plant a big, sloppy kiss on her.  But I could've.  I'm that excited.

Seriously, after 15 years with my man, I thought he couldn't surprise me anymore.  I thought I could read him so well that I would know he was up to something.  The fact is that he's had this brewing and planned for a very long time, and I had no idea.  How amazing is it that he would not only surprise me, but he would surprise me with something that I've wanted to do forever.  And that he will not only send me to the concert, but he will sit through it with me.  My husband, whose idea of good music is...well, whatever the opposite of Barry Manilow is.  That is love, right there.

(And I know, it's nobody's business, but the sensible girl in me feels the need to explain that we have not gone out of our normally frugal minds by taking a trip like this while the economy is tanking.  Thanks to frequent flyer miles, a great Priceline deal, and some money Hubs' had been setting aside for some time without my knowledge--the turkey!  how did he do that?--the whole thing is actually pretty unfrivolous.  So don't worry, I'm still sensible and frugal, I'm just going to be sensible and frugal IN LAS VEGAS.)

(Although the thought does suddenly occur to me that perhaps no one will be travelling so that they can stay home and watch the stock ticker, which means, I suppose, that we might have Las Vegas all to ourselves.  If the audience is empty at the concert, do you think Barry might pull me up on stage for a duet?  I did make up a dance routine to Copa Cabana when I was about 10, and I'm pretty sure I remember most of it.) 

Anyway, I now have a couple of weeks to get ready for this trip.  Tell me, if you've been to Vegas, what do I need to know?  Because I have to say I'm feeling the urge to get a bee-hive hairdo and some sequiny pants.  What else should I do?  What should we absolutely NOT miss, considering our time is pretty limited?

While you think about it, you can watch this.  It's not as snazzy as the one I made up 26 years ago, but it will have to do:

Stormy

A couple of nights ago, I was awakened at 2:30 a.m. to the shrill whine of tornado sirens outside my window.  Ah, springtime in Oklahoma.

Giant chunks of hail hit my window, and my daughter came careening down my hall in a fit of fear before I could even sit upright in my bed.  (My boys, incidentally, did not wake up.  I suspect that if the roof lifted off our house and some tree branches reached in and picked the boys up and shook them upside down, they might wake up.  Might.)

As I held my daughter and tried to awaken, I noticed the room was illuminated by the soft glow of our tiny television, and my husband was silhouetted, sitting at the foot of our bed.  His eyes were honed in to a scary-looking radar screen. 

"Shhhh," he whispered.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll keep an eye on things, and I'll wake you up if we need to go to the shelter."

For about 2.4 seconds I considered arguing with him.  Then I looked at my daughter, who had already fallen back asleep in my cushy bed, and I just nodded.  I was horizontal and sound asleep before I could think another thought.

The night dragged on, storms ravaging our city.  I awakened several more times to thunderous, howling noise, but my sleepy eyes always saw, first of all, my husband at the television.  And every time, I relaxed instantly, dropping back to sleep.

The visual image is staying with me powerfully:  my strong husband, quietly yet sharply keeping watch over his family, while the rest of us were sleeping too soundly to know to be thankful.  We just slept, because it's what you do at nighttime, and we left all the safety issues to him. 

And I wonder, as I navigate other kinds of "storms"--will the day ever come when I rest quite as easily in God's watchful care?  His silhouette may not be as visible--to my eyes, anyway--as that of my husband's, but He is surely perched just as soundly at the foot of my bed, on the hood of my car, on the shoulder of my children, on a dusty road in Uganda.  May I trust, and rest.

Thoroughly Hopeless

Four children, three states, four mortgages, 427 bouts of stomach viruses and even more episodes of tearfully bad hair coloring (mine, not Hubs)...and I think my marriage may have finally encountered the deal-breaker*:

Is the word "thorough" pronounced THUR-oh or THUR-uh?

(And no, do not tell me how the dictionary says to say it.  Tell me how you say it.  And no, I won't tell you which one is mine and which one is Hubs', except to tell you that mine is the right one.)

*I jest, of course.  We are absolutely, totally, geekily, happily, grammatically in love.  There are no deal-breakers in this marriage.  Though if there were one, it would probably be related to bad pronunciation.  I'm just sayin'.

Madness Indeed

March Madness is the only time  of year that my otherwise sensible husband goes crazy.  Before we had children, and the concept of "leisure time" still figured in to our vocabulary, I knew not to expect too much togetherness in March.  It was sacred time.

My man has college basketball running deep in his blood.  The first time I ever saw him cry was when the Arkansas Razorbacks won the NCAA tournament in 1994, three months before our wedding.  Tears of joy poured down his cheeks, and he planted a kiss on me that may still be the most enthusiastic one I've ever had.  Certainly the most salty.

He has made me promise that I will play One Shining Moment at his funeral someday.  I have reluctantly agreed, and I'm just praying I pre-decease him.  (Which, come to think of it, might not be such a good idea, or One Shining Moment might get played at my funeral.  Oh, heavens.)

As the years have gone by, his passion hasn't waned, but his leisure time has.  The demands of life keep him from watching as much college basketball as he'd like throughout the year, and he's been a real sport about it.  That man makes sacrifices more cheerfully than anyone I've ever known.

But when the second half of March rolls around, I can see the hairs on the back of his neck standing permanently at attention.  Now he has three boys who happily pile on the couch with him (though I suspect they're in it more for the steady flow of cheese dip).  He can fill out a bracket that will usually slay anyone else's.  In fact, I have learned that the easiest way to drive him STARK RAVIN' NUTS is to explain him to the reasoning behind my own convoluted bracket.  My logic for this year's bracket goes something like this:

1.  Always pick SEC teams.
2.  ORU and Oklahoma make it to the Sweet 16, because, well, they live in Oklahoma, and so do I.
3.  I have lots of friends from Kansas State and Texas A&M, so I have to vote for them.
4.  Gonzaga will advance far, because Gonzo has always been my favorite Muppet.
5.  So will Temple, because, well, Jesus worshipped in the temple, right?

[This is where his eyes start to roll back in his head.]

6.  I plan to vote for John McCain in November, so I have to pick Arizona to go far.
7.  Memphis will make it to the Final Four, because they have such nice barbecue.
8.  Duke will take the whole thing, because I feel sorry for Mike Krzyzewski that he has such a difficult last name.

Now you see why I never actually bet any money on this.

So if my blog posts seem disjointed the next couple of weeks, know that it's because I'm being interruped by shouts of joy and anguish coming from the man sitting on the couch next to me.  Well, and all the cheese dip.   

I Love It When That Happens

Last night Hubs and I were having a conversation in which I was--predictably--emotional and over-reactive.  Hubs was--predictably--calm and rational and (dadgummit) right.  When it was over he looked at me with something resembling a smirk.

Hubs:  You know I love you, even though you're kooky.

Me: Of course you do.  Can you even imagine if you were married to somebody...

Hubs: ...sane?

Me: [Something resembling a glare.]

Hubs:  Yes, dear.  It would be very dull.

Me:  Thank you.

What If

I am a fearful person.  I can fake it pretty well, and I act confident much of the time.  I'm usually able to engineer circumstances so I'm taking as little risk as possible.  But at the core of it, I'm a trembly mess.

Add to this an over-active imagination, and you have a recipe for some very vivid, irrational fears.  Think "Ally McBeal", except without the law degree, tiny waist, pouty lips and dancing baby.

Scratch that, I even have the dancing baby.  She's sleeping upstairs in pwincess pajamas.

I've learned to cope with this over the years by verbalizing these fears (usually to Hubs, the poor man), and then I can see how ridiculous they are.  We get a good laugh out of it.

As you might imagine, this Africa trip has kicked my imagination into overdrive. 

What if we're driving toward a village miles across the desert and our jeep breaks down and we're kidnapped by a band of marauders (do they really have bands of marauders these days?) and we're headed to their village but are intercepted by a hungry horde (troop? tribe?) of elephants and I am trampled to death, with my last thoughts being the looks in my children's eyes?

And that's on the good days. 

There are plenty of fantasies involving the plane trip, as well.  I'd rather not even verbalize those, if you don't mind, but they generally involving plunging from the sky in a fiery ball of death toward the Atlantic ocean. 

When I spoke about not being the adventure sort, I wasn't lying.  And I do not mean to make light of Africa or the people that work there, or the people who are facing their mortality in more serious and immediate ways.  I know my fears are silly in the grand scheme of things.  But to me, they're a real stumbling block. 

The other night Hubs and I had a real-live honest-to-goodness date, and it ended where all truly fantastic and passionate dates do:  walking the aisle of Wal Mart Supercenter, hand-in-hand, picking up some Pull-Ups on the way home. 

As we walked through the baby section, we passed the little girls' pajamas.

"See?!" I said suddenly.  "This is what I mean."

"What?" Hubs said.

"If I die in Africa, how will you know that Corrie prefers gowns to pajamas, but it's hard to find gowns anymore, so when you do find one in her size, you need to go ahead and buy it."

I am sure this is a date that will live in his sweetest memories for a long time.

"Well," said my rational man, "first of all, you're not going to die in Africa.  Second of all, if you did, pajamas would be at the bottom of my list of concerns.  And third, ultimately we'd just manage."

"But life would be very, very hard for you, wouldn't it?  You'd barely be able to go on, right?"

"I'd be a shell of a man," he assured me.

I was satisfied for a moment, and we continued our shopping--until something else spurred my thoughts.

"I know I always tease you for watching those survival shows, but what if I get stranded on the plains of Africa and I have to actually implement some of those awful Bear Grylls techniques?  Wouldn't that just be so ironic?"  [Nervous laugh].

In a moment of sudden seriousness he looked me square in the eye.  "If you get stranded on the plains of Africa, I will come for you.  I will find you."

I think I need to go kiss that man again.

The truth is, I know that this trip is not about me--not at all.  It's entirely about those sweet African children, and doing whatever we can to gain more sponsorships to improve their situation. 

But as it often happens, God is using a primary thing to work a secondary purpose in my heart.  It's like he's grabbed my brain and is wringing it until all the fearfulness has bubbled up to the surface.  It's ugly.  It's even funny.  But it's terribly necessary.

Many of you asked how you can pray for us.  Of course, pray for the kids of Uganda, and that hearts all over the place will be opening up to sponsor one.  But if you think of it, pray that this silly housewife will learn a thing or two about stepping out--really stepping out--to trust in God's plan.  Marauders, elephants, and all.

Women Are From Venus, Men Are From Earl

Last week, as we drove for hours across the wide open spaces of the Oklahoma prairie, I glanced over to catch a look at the profile of my husband.  His strong hands gripped the steering wheel, and his furrowed brow glanced back and forth between the highway and the screen of our dashboard navigational system. 

I settled back into my seat with a sigh of contentment, and I began to think Deep Thoughts About The State Of My Marriage.  What a manly man I have!  He's just as comfortable behind an Excel spreadsheet as he is behind a campfire.  He takes such good care of us.  He never complains.

And, certain that my good man must be thinking Equally Profound And Loving Thoughts, I spoke his name.

Me:  Hubs?

Hubs: [Absently] Hmmmm?

Me:  You know, one of the things I love most about you is that you're just uncomplicated.  I mean, you just make a decision and stick with it--you don't overanalyze and fret and make things as messy as I do.  And I love that about you, so much.  [I reached over and gently rubbed his neck.]  Don't you agree?  Wouldn't you say you're uncomplicated?

Hubs:  [Thoughtful pause.]  Earl.

Me:  Pardon?

Hubs: [Pointing at the nav system and chuckling in way that was entirely too reminiscent of a junior-high boy.]  Earl.  We're about to drive through a town called Earl.

Uncomplicated?  I rest my case.

Quite Possibly the Best Line Ever In the Whole World

It was November of 1993.  Hubs and I were in luuuuv, and he was ready to pop the question.  But he is a good Southern boy, and he knew, therefore, that he had to ask my daddy first.

Hubs isn't easily intimidated by things.  In fact, people who first meet him sometimes find him intimidating.  He takes things exactly as they come, with a level head, and he almost never over-reacts or worries. 

Except this time.  The poor guy was a nervous wreck about talking to my dad.  I'm the only daughter, the first-born, and my dad and I always have been close.  AND Dad had a tendency for giving the boys I dated a hard time (I had shared all the stories with Hubs).  He knew this might be hard. 

Because Hubs is a smart man, he chose the big moment carefully.  My parents had come to visit me at college, and Hubs took my dad to a Razorback basketball practice.  This automatically put them on common ground, and (best of all) eliminated the need for that great killer of courage, eye contact.

As they sat there together, the thumping of the basketballs and the squeaking of the rubber-soled shoes echoing all around them, Hubs summoned his nerve.

"Mr. [maiden name]," he started, "I think you know that Shannon and I have become very serious."

My dad silently nodded.

"And I love her very much."

More silence.  Poor Hubs.

"And I'd like to ask your permission to marry her."

Dad didn't speak for a minute.  As he always does when he's reflecting (and my dad is usually reflecting), he gently rubbed his upper lip with his index finger.  His eyes stayed on the basketball players in front them.  He let the silence linger in the air just as long as he possibly could.

Then he spoke.

"Let me ask you a question."

Another pause.

"For 21 years, Shannon's mother and I have prayed every single day about the man she would marry.  Every day."

Yep, another pause.

"What I want to ask you is, are you the man worthy of all that prayer?"

(May I just say how thankful I am that the world is structured the way it is?  If I had been the one required to ask such a question, and I'd received such an answer, I probably would've started crying.)

But Hubs said the only thing a confident young man with the world at his feet could say:  "Yes sir, I think I am!"

The conversation was easy and gracious from then on, as my dad gave Hubs his blessing and encouraged him. 

I love that story.  It makes for a few good chuckles when we tell it now, but it still--14 years later--warms me to the core.  I treasure that Hubs loved me enough to humble himself willingly.  I treasure that my dad loved me enough to make it hard.  I love that those two men are such good friends now. 

And you can bet my husband is saving that line to use himself, when some sparkly-eyed boy comes sniffing around our daughter.  I pity the boy.

That Kiss

We had a very big wedding, and there were a mind-numbing number of details.  I spent the better part of six months making sure it would all go off flawlessly.  I was stressed-out and jumpy, and I was a control freak to such a degree that it's remarkable Hubs still married me.

On my list of Wedding Details That Needed To Be Managed was "the kiss".  The you-may-kiss-the-bride kiss.  I suggested to Hubs that we should rehearse it.  We had plenty of kissing experience, goodness knows, but that was a very important kiss.  What if we clocked each other in the nose in front of 400+ people?  What if, out of nervousness, the kiss was passionless and dull?  What if I started laughing?

Hubs had the nerve to say no.  We wouldn't rehearse.  We'd kiss plenty, and every now and then I'd say, "so, will it be like that?"  But he would just smile and shrug, much to my dismay, and my pleas fell on deaf ears.  I started to worry he had some lovey-dovey mischief up his sleeve, and I reminded him that my dad would be sitting in the second row. 

Still, he just grinned.  "It'll be a good kiss," he promised.  Even then, that man knew how to mess with me. 

On our wedding day, things were perfect.  Despite my preoccupation with the details, I managed to stay quite focused during the ceremony.  I wasn't nervous at all.  Until our pastor said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife.  You may kiss the bride."

I had exactly .7 seconds to think half a nervous thought.

Because then he kissed me.

That kiss, my friends, was The Kiss To End All Kisses.  While the specific details of it are meant for my memories only, I'll tell you that I didn't just feel that kiss on my lips.  I felt it inside my brain, the very brain that had tried (unsuccessfully) to talk me out of falling in love with this man so quickly.  I felt it inside the belly that would someday carry our four as-yet-unknown-and-unplanned-for babies.  It traveled all the way down to my feet, the feet that would happily follow this man from the small town to the big city and everywhere in between.

It was a good kiss.

And thankfully, Hubs didn't pack that kiss away with the box of wedding keepsakes that sit in my attic.  Every now and then, it reappears.  He'll walk in the door from work, usually on a day when my hair is greasy and the kids are fighting and dinner is burned and he'll plant that same kiss right back on me.  My knees go just as weak as they did 13 years ago.

It's still a good kiss.