Rocks In My Dryer

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.

How Hubs and I Almost WEREN'T

I'm not sure why I'm in such a walk-down-memory-lane sort of mood lately, but I am.  Today I'm going to tell you one of my favorite stories.  It involves one of my oldest and dearest friends, a sorority sister whose privacy I want to be very careful to protect.  So I'll just tell you only that her name begins with Mich- and ends in -elle.

(I'm totally giving her a hard time, because I know she's reading this.  Hi, darlin'!)

Hubs and I first met our junior year in college, Michelle and Hubs were both very active leaders in a particular student organization.  They had to work closely together, and in the course of their interactions they had somehow butted heads.  Badly.  Both of these people I love dearly are very (how shall I say it?) independent-minded, and the two of them together wasn't a nice combination.

Anyway, Hubs and I had met in February of '93, with initially disastrous impressions of each other.  Thankfully, circumstances continued to put us around each other, and we formed more favorable opinions.  We quickly became friends, and I developed a pretty significant crush on this smart, funny, ambitious fraternity boy who was unlike anyone I'd ever met.

In March, my sorority held a "date function", which is another word for "cruel, medieval torture device."  Not really, but it did mean that the girl from the sorority invited a boy to the party.  As in, asked him out.  On a DATE.  Because of the very proper way I'd (thankfully) been raised, I would've rather thrown myself in front of a bus than ask a boy out, so I had skipped most of these date functions up to that point.

But then there was Hubs.  And I WANTED A DATE with that man.  I fretted and stewed and wrung my hands and somehow summoned every ounce of courage deep in my soul.  I was going to ask him to the party.

This particular date function required that the sorority member sign up her date's name on a list posted in the chapter house.  Then that list would be published in the student newspaper, and the girl would then call the boy and say, "Hey!  Did you see your name on the list?  That was from me!"

So not only could you potentially be rejected, but you could potentially be rejected with the entire University of Arkansas watching.  It was a grand tradition.

With sweaty palms, I nervously wrote "Hubs Dryer" on the list.  It was horrible, but I was ready to sacrifice my dignity for a date with Dream Boy.  I took a deep breath and dashed to class. 

As I headed across campus, though, I heard someone shouting my name.  It was Michelle, and she was frantically chasing me.  Breathless, she said, "Did I see that you put Hubs Dryer's name on the date function list?  I didn't even know you knew him!"

"Yes," I told her.  "We met about a month ago, and I think I like him."

She told me how she knew him, how they'd worked together.  "Shannon," she said firmly.  "He is AWFUL.  So bossy.  You cannot possibly go out with him."  Then she delivered the final blow:  "Trust me--the two of you would NEVER work out."

Of course, that was just IT for me.  My nerves couldn't take anymore.  As soon as I got the chance, I thoroughly erased his name from the list, thankful my friend had spared me from a horrible date with Awful Boy. 

Yet, Awful Boy continued to show up in my path, almost daily.  And he wasn't that awful.  Not at all.  When he spared me the trauma and asked me out a month later, I fell hard.

The wonderful irony of this story (and there is much) is that Michelle and Hubs are dear friends now, which tickles me pink.  Except for this one gaping incident, every other piece of advice she's given me has been spot-on correct, but I still won't let her live it down.  In fact, I recall standing behind her in the foyer of my hometown church on my wedding day.  Pachelbel's Canon in D was swirling in the air and Michelle, my maid of honor, was about to head down the aisle. 

"We'd never work out, huh?" I whispered.

Thankfully, a good sense of humor is one of her many gifts.  (I love you, my sweet friend!  Oh, and Awful Boy?  I love you too.)

Ah, the Blind Love Of a Son For His Mother

Today we went to the pool.  I had squeezed my sorry self into a swimsuit and was wearing my five-year-old swimsuit cover- up.  My make-up was running off my face, thanks to the heat index of 107 degrees.  My hair had not been washed in 48 hours.  I was the picture of loveliness.

As we climbed into the car and headed out, I slipped on my sunglasses.  Stephen suddenly piped up, "Mom, with those sunglasses on, you look like David Beckham's wife."

Why yes, Darlin', people get us confused ALL the time.  Except for the fact that she wears spikey heels with her mini-dresses and I wear Keds with my knit yoga pants.  And that she has a staff to take care of her family, and I'm just thrilled to have a dog that licks the chunks off the floor.  Oh, and MY THIGH IS BIGGER AROUND THAN HER WAIST.

To be fair, my hair stylist and I did discuss the Posh Haircut before my last trim, and we were generally aiming in that direction.  So you could say she and I have the same hair, if you squint your eyes, tilt your head sideways, and wear a blindfold. 

I wouldn't trade places with her for anything, though.  I'll take my Keds and my scrappy dog and my eight-year-old son who thinks I'm a rock star. 

Anyway, her husband isn't as hot as mine.

(And by the way, before anyone leaves me nasty comments about letting my son read articles about Posh Spice, let me assure you that the ONLY reason he even know she exists is because she's married to Soccer's Golden Boy, a title he fully intends to assume himself someday.)

Reason #473 That Man Makes Me Laugh

Hubs:  [Stopping as we walked into a restaurant, and pointing at our fender].  Grrrr....would you look at that?  Those boys of ours wrote "wash me" in the dirt on the back of my car.

Me: [giggling]

Hubs:  I'm going to go home and write "disown me" in the dirt on the back of their bikes. 

Leggy

Tonight Hubs was standing in the kitchen talking to me as I cleaned up dinner.  Suddenly something on the counter caught my eye.  I interrupted him: "Hey Babe, want me to show you a little leg?"

His eyebrows shot up expectantly.

And I tossed him this:

Heh.

Trust

You didn't know I was watching you play with the kids this evening. 

You stood at the foot of our stairs with our two youngest, giving each of them a chance to jump off the fourth step, into your arms.

Corrie wasn't sure.  It was a leap for her, literally and figuratively, and it would require a few inches of being airborne before she landed in your arms.  "I'll catch you," you said quietly.

But Joseph, with the wisdom of a boy who has been around the block with his daddy a few times, knew just what to do.  He confidently climbed to that step, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure his little sister was watching.  Then with utter abandon, utter trust, he launched himself, laughing, into the air.

And you caught him.

Of course you did.  You always do.

It is hard to imagine a greater gift this side of Heaven than knowing that my children have a daddy who will catch them, every time.

Lucky Number Thirteen

For my sweet Hubs, in celebration of 13 years of (in no particular order):

belly laughing
Friends watching
penny pinching
Jesus trusting
bed hogging
Hamburger-Helper eating
toe-lint cleaning
CFA studying
Rocky-Mountain loving
baby having
Chicago leaving
Hog watching
colic enduring
house hunting
knee doctoring
crazies surviving
furniture ruining
Okie becoming
mini-van driving
NICU praying
company starting
Disney splurging
blog tolerating
dog loving
bike riding
soccer coaching
laundry mastering
homework bossing
and so much more...

I'd do every bit of it again, as long as I could do it with you.

I love you--happy anniversary!

Works For Me: Love, Sweet Love

In honor of Valentine's Day, today is the Love, Sweet Love Edition of Works-For-Me Wednesday.  Have a romantic tip to share with Bloggityville?  This is your chance!  Ideas could include a way to woo your sweetie, a helpful piece of relationship advice, etc.  (Just keep it PG-rated if you're going to link back here.  Ahem.)

My Hubs loves order more than anyone I've ever known.  I'm sure if you charted his brain waves, they would be perfectly symmetrical, evenly-spaced and color-coded.  My brain waves, on the other hand, would be banging into each other, starting projects they couldn't finish, and spending too much on purses.

Years ago, on a whim, when he was particularly busy at work and didn't have the time to "order" his life the way he wanted, I organized his closet.  I threw out all the extra plastic bags from the cleaners, packaged up the old hangers for recycling, sorted his dress shirts by color, evenly spaced the hangers...you get the idea.  It was quite a challenge for this right-brain girl. 

That night, when he came home and saw his spic-and-span closet, he grinned like an eight-year-old boy.  Not only was he tickled at his shiny new closet, he was deeply touched that his messy wife (whose own closet looks like an explosion at TJMaxx) would think of something so out-of-character.

To this day, when life gets a little stressful for him, I organize his closet within an inch of its life.  I don't like doing it, but I know that this simple little thing makes him feel more loved than anything else I do.

Okay, almost anything else.

;)

For more straight talk, visit any of the links below.  Be sure you don't miss Carol's excellent post!