Tag Archives: MQD

A father who loved…

I pick. I probe. I ask questions. In my first marriage I used to ask “Are we gonna be okay?” and later learned I should have been more specific. Early on with MQD I started asking specific questions.

“If I can’t get pregnant will you resent me?”

“Do you believe it’s possible to marry, raise a family and still be in love? Do you want that with me?”

“I won’t likely make the same kind of money you will and I want to raise my children, be at home as much as I can. I struggle with feeling like that makes me your equal. Do you think it does?”

But every so often there’s a question. One I don’t let pass my lips because I already know the answer.

The other night I was listening to MQD tucking Em in to bed. They were laughing. “Good night, sweetheart. I love you,” he said.

He was walking down the stairs and a question popped in to my head. He walked behind me as I sat in the rocking chair and he paused and looked down at Lucy. I could feel him smiling.

“Do you love Emily the same way you love Lucy?” Contrary to the way it might appear to some, I do occasionally bite my tongue. I didn’t ask him.

But once I’d formulated the question I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s ridiculous. It was a trap. I don’t love Lucy and Emily the same. Equally, sure. But not the same. And I’d never ask him if he loved them equally. The scientist in him would immediately answer that Love is not something that can be quantified.  There was no right answer.

And really his answer doesn’t matter. It’s a silly question. And one I know the answer to in the grand scheme of things.

I tell Emily all of the time that no matter what, even if I had a hundred more kids that always and forever it would be Emily that made me a mother. It secures her a special place in my heart.

Emily made MQD a father, too. It’s easy to see a father’s love with an infant in his arms. For that matter it is easy to love an infant. But MQD grew to love a three year old. Anyone who has ever spent time with a three year old knows that they are fickle beasts.

Emily made MQD a father. One day at a time. Slowly.

She started calling him Dad the day we were married. But he became a dad long before then.

Mike, I love the way you love your girls. All three of us.

Laughter is the Best Medicine

I’ve mentioned before that I love Reader’s Digest.  I learned  an awful lot from Reader’s Digest and there are things I read there that I believe now to be gospel.  It really is “all in a day’s work,” I suppose. And in my heart of hearts I believe that laughter is the best medicine.  It’ll cure what ails you.

I love the picture above.  MQD makes me laugh each and every day and roughly 95% of the time he doesn’t even mean to.

An ordinary exchange.  Married couple is sitting on the couch watching a television show.  Wife waits until a commercial and then while the husband is fast forwarding she strikes up a conversation.

“How do you feel about wallpaper?” I asked him the other night.

“I don’t have a problem with wallpaper. I mean no one in my family was killed by wallpaper.”

Keep me laughing, Mike.  And you’ll keep me.  

MQD May

Several nights ago MQD mentioned that while Emily might not actually be keeping score that he definitely was. Evidently I have not showered him with the love and appreciation he is due here on Excitement on the Side. I laughed and suggested that I write 31 posts about him in the month of May, the Baskin Robbins of Husbands, 31 flavors of Mike. Our wedding anniversary is today, April 30th, so perhaps it is an appropriate month to focus on my main squeeze, in spite of the fact that it is my month. Mother’s Day. My 36th birthday.

I enjoyed counting down the days to Christmas with our decorations. So, May…. I offer up 31 days devoted to my better half. To marital bliss. Brought to you with accompanying wedding pictures.

I’m kicking off Mike month a day early!!


MQD

More than a pretty face, he’s a snappy dresser, too

A lot has changed in the last year. Big stuff. A baby. A house. But by far the biggest change in the day to day has been Mike’s commitment to looking fine.

Note the time. We used to stay up late.

I fell in love with this boy. Perhaps you remember him. He wore camo pants and profane band tshirts. And he needed a hair cut. But he was mine. And I was crazy about him.

Was this some kind of Ridiculous Hair contest?

I really liked this guy with crazy hair and a goatee.  But holy shit, did I LOVE this guy with a fresh new haircut.

 And then sometime last spring he started wearing a shirt and tie to work everyday. His shopping for casual suits provided this super Easter gear. And Honeymoon Cruise attire galore.

Now shopping for Mike has become a hobby. He is always on the lookout for something. Bow ties. The perfect dress shirt. Saddle shoes. A belt. It is not uncommon while watching television with Mike to find him googling “casual men’s shoes” on his phone.

I was not the only girl falling for that long haired boy.

I watch more television now than I have in years. A nursing infant allows for that. Instead of getting myself sucked in to the daytime tv sinkhole I have been recording a few shows to fill the 30 minutes here and there I find myself in the rocking chair underneath a sleeping baby.

The talk show. There are more than enough to choose from. But I keep coming back to the same one.

Last week I kept seeing one sharp outfit after the next. Nothing revolutionary. Just a plaid shirt and a great sweater with corduroy elbow pads. Loosely tied tie and a really crisp white shirt, untucked with penny loafers. A cardigan sweater and khakis. The other night we were talking about the break of a man’s pant and I was saying that it is impossible to wear pants with no break without looking like you are waiting for a flood, but recently I saw it in an outfit and it was cute. Navy pant, polo shirt and saddle shoes, no socks. It worked. A glen plaid vest with a monochromatic shirt, tie and pant. Things I don’t think I’d think of wearing that come together beautifully. All classic pieces.

So, how do I bring it up? Honey, I love the look you’ve been developing. And I think I found a style icon for you. I swear, any outfit this person wore last week would have looked great on you. Give them a google, baby. It’s Ellen Degeneres.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.  I love you more every day.  I couldn’t love you more if you were a lesbian talk show host.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dirty Business

Before you say ‘”Awww… look at the sweet baby” let me remind you – Parenting is a dirty, nasty job.

I combat the filthy nature of the job with my disgusting sense of humor pretty regularly. The reality of parenting an infant is that they are not particularly entertaining.  Falling in love is magical.  But magic won’t make your sides hurt with laughter.  So, I really can’t look to Lucy to keep me amused.  I have to take responsibility for that.  Luckily I find myself pretty entertaining on a regular basis. Add in the delicious hilarity of being wildly overtired and I am like my own personal stand up show all day long.

I talk to my kids.  A lot.  Even when they are not listening. Especially when they are not listening.  I can remember a day that I was jabbering away at Emily.  We were taking a walk, she was in her jogging stroller and I was yammering on  about someone we had just seen at the beach and it dawned on me… someday she will understand what I am saying.  And lawd almighty she might even repeat it.  I was going to lose my most frequent audience member.  It was only a matter of time.

Enter Lucy. The newest and biggest fan to my twenty-four hour a day comedy show.   The biggest difference to my parenting this go round? She is not my ONLY audience member.  I have to mind my tongue as I jabber mindlessly when Em is in the room.  And MQD?  Will he appreciate my antics?

So far, so good.  This morning was a good morning.  Em left to catch the bus and MQD and I hopped back in bed with Lucy Q for a spell.  She is her cheeriest in the morning so I have been encouraging him to spend a few minutes in the morning and take in that face.  Because the evening, when the witching hours reign supreme, that makes up the lion’s share of his time with her. And that’s just no fair.

As she wiggled and squirmed and her face turned bright red I started to blather.  Keep talking and you can often distract the little one from crying I have found.  “Let it go, kiddo.  That’s a poop face, isn’t it? Liberate the poop prisoners!!!” In the middle of chuckling over my fine moment of alliteration I looked up to see MQD’s face.  The moments when you know you married the right guy, they can come in so many different forms.  “From your ANAL PRISON!” and he smiled.

The man gets me.  And evidently he embraces my perverse parenting style.

Give me an inch and I will take a mile.  He encouraged me.  Big mistake.  “Hurry up and poop, little miss, and I have a BIIIG breakfast for you.  No piece of fruit.  No continental breakfast. Fuckin’ french TOAST on some thick ass bread, this shit is FIR REEAALL.  They’ve got CHEESE BLINTZES!”

“And creeps.  And Organic Coffee!” chimed in MQD.

And then breakfast was served.  Evidently someone had sidled up to the all night buffet a few times during the night.  But only one side.  I woke up more than a little lop sided.  I wasn’t kidding about that big breakfast.

Lefty is for breakfast. Evidently Righty was open all night.

And lest you think this entire elaborate tale was just a complicated plan to post a picture of my grossly uneven boobs?  You should know that the Poop Prisoners were liberated.  All over my shirt. Turns out this shit IS for real.

Lucy's idea of a Party. With a capital P. For Poop.

Elephantitis of the Ankles

“My feet look like elephant feet.”

As I struggled to get out of the car I dropped something.  For the 800th time today.  “I’m a mess,” I mumble to no one in particular.

From the back seat Em chimes in “And you can’t stop saying shit.”

Without missing a beat MQD says “You’re already Mother of the Year, only eight days in.”

Breaking News…

Sometimes I can be a little bit of a know-it-all.  And I imagine that makes living with me difficult occasionally.  I really try not to act like I am the Great Knower of All Things, constantly imparting my infinite wisdom.

Sometimes I really struggle with being seven years older than my husband.  I pull gray hairs from my head and I see his under 30 smile and I wonder what he sees in me.

And very occasionally these two facts combine and create a perfect moment in time.

MQD was born in July of 1983.  So when Billy Gibbons revealed  a global truth to the world that summer … MQD had just been born.  He was probably not listening to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40.  So, it’s possible he doesn’t know that “Every Girl is Crazy ’bout a Sharp Dressed Man.”  And I am not about to tell him.

 

Side note: MQD, it is not only your bowtie that had me weak in the knees this morning (or this 800 pound kid of yours I am lugging around in my innards.)  But for the billionth time since we have moved in to our house I started to prepare to leave for work and the time had come to find my keys.  And there they were.  Hanging on the key rack.  I am pretty certain I have never hung them there.  So, lest you think it is only your “Clean shirt, new shoes…” that keeps me “runnin’ just as fast [ I ] can” in your direction… I’m not that shallow.  I also love you for keeping track of my keys.

Soup

At first glance you wouldn’t guess that the ornament that says “God made the beautiful skies with stars like twinkling eyes” would rank high among my all time favorite ornaments.   I don’t exactly go very far out of my way to keep the Christ in Christmas.  But this ornament has something special inside.

A little Kelly, circa 1979, plastic dress up shoes, Raggedy Ann pajama top, Dorothy Hamill haircut.  Behind that pantry door was the first and maybe second of what would be many marks indicating the heights of everyone in our family.

On the back it says “Love, The Speedys, Xmas 1979.”

The Speedys lived next door to us when we first moved in to the house I grew up in in 1979.  They had two teenage boys and a huge dog.  Sue Speedy liked to garden and she did so in a manner that made her appear as though she had just stepped out of an LL Bean catalogue.  I remember her seeming so put together.  Decked out in the best of early 80s fashion, whale turtlenecks and duck boots.  There were snap dragons planted in the island between our yard and theirs and I can remember sticking my finger in and out of the snapdragon’s mouths while my mom chatted with Sue.

This ornament is interesting to me for a couple of reasons.  The first, of course,  being that it has a picture of me.  And if you read here, you know I am wildly fascinated by old pictures of myself.  Heh.  But this year it took on an even greater degree of interest.  Christmas, 1979.  My mom was pregnant with my brother.  Not very, as he was born prematurely six months later. But she was pregnant.

I remember the snapdragons that spring.  I remember Sue Speedy’s duck boots.  I remember my brother being very small.  (Or at least I think I do. The line between photographs jogging your memory and real memories made up of smells and “brain movies” is fuzzy to me.)  But I have no memory of my mother being pregnant.  None.  I remember the way her perfume smelled, the way she looked in this amazing water-colored silk dress.  Her closet.  But I don’t recall her being with child. Strange the things the mind omits.

I wonder how Emily will recall this pregnancy.  If she will remember the nights I climbed in her bed.  Because pregnancy induced insomnia had me pacing the house and her steady breathing and warm little body relaxes me.  Last night as I slid in beside her she rolled over, brushed her hand across my face and said “Sleep, Mommy.  You need to sleep before the baby gets here.”

Earlier in the evening I was overwhelmed.  A sudden rush of “holy-shit-we-are-going-to-have-a-baby” consumed me and I sat down on the couch with a huge exhale, called MQD and said “I can’t make dinner.   My hip hurts, I am tired, I just can’t.”  Kindly, he said to just tell him what I’d like for him to pick up and he’d get it on his way home.  Ever the pregnant woman I was not satisfied with this answer and complained that the pressure of having to make up my mind was making me feel like I was going to cry.

Em sat beside me on the couch.  She put her arm around me and kissed me on the cheek.  “Just let it out, Mom.”  I smiled at her wordlessly.  She held my hand.  “We can get Mexican food?   Yanno, Mexican soup.”

She’d effectively broken the spell of my bad mood. “Sweetheart, I don’t think we have ever had any Mexican soup.  Do you mean Chinese food?”

“Yeah, Mexican soup is Chinese food.”

Of course it is.

And so I wonder if she will remember when we sat on the couch, side by side, because she no longer fits on my lap.  And she offered me Mexican Chinese soup and held my hand.  “We’re a perfect little family.” And my eyes teared up, worried that somehow I was destroying our perfect family of three with the new addition.  She continued, “and it will be even more perfect when the baby comes.”

In Laws & Tradition

If you blog or put yourself out there on the internet in any way at all you are quite likely aware of the way that you appear to a reader, be they casual or committed.  Often bloggers are criticized for being one-dimensional, only putting certain parts of their personalities out on display, some only the very best, some only the trainwreck that is their “personal” life.

I do my best to give a pretty well-rounded view of me, of who I am.  Not so much for a reader, but because my primary purpose in keeping this record is for my own benefit.  I will be able to look back and see what I hope is a realistic picture of the past.  Even if I do choose the images, the words, the stories to remember.   I make an effort to focus on both the good times and the bad.

The last year has held more good times than any year previous, in spite of the fact that I have led a pretty charmed existence all things considered.  But I try not to make bold statements about the greatness of my life, lest they bite me in the ass.

But I can say this was confidence.

My mother-in-law is better than your mother-in-law.  Without any grandstanding or superlatives I can likely convince you that I am right with one sentence.  I really like the little gifts she has surprised us with.  You know how your in-laws come to visit or you go to see them and they say “Oh, I picked these up for you” and you smile and make a mental note  – Every time they come to see me I will use these atrocious potholders.

But not me.  Nope.  MQD’s mother has been generous all while understanding that he did not marry a 20 year old bright eyed college girl.   I have opinions on things, some of them steadfast.  For chrissake she asked me what kind of toilet paper we like before she grabbed some the last time she ran out to the store.

She asked me if I was a Wreath Person before placing an order for a Holiday Wreath.  I am so totally  a Wreath Person and anxiously awaiting its arrival.

When we were in Boston this summer Ginger said “Oh, this is for you guys, you can put it anywhere, maybe your mantle.”  Gasp.  My mantle?  A girl’s holiday mantle is like the centerpiece to her holiday decorating. She can’t be serious?!

And I LOVE it.  Five months I waited to take it out of the plastic.  14 letters spelling out MERRY CHRISTMAS.  There was no way for her to know that I kind of love anything resembling vintage type set letters.  Or that I prefer colored decorations to brass.  And yet it is perfect.

We still need to get the garland for the mantle.  And hooks for the stockings. But I couldn’t wait any longer.  So much of Christmas to me is about unboxing the things that I have loved for years and years, the traditions.  It is a pleasure to put up a new decoration. One I will unwrap joyfully each year and remember, this was from our first married Christmas, in our new house.

Merry Christmas, Ginger. May I never have a box in my hall closet labeled Crap To Take Out When the In-Laws Visit.  Cheers!

Honest you do…

In our wedding ceremony I included a bit about how I knew that MQD was “the one.”  I said it was our first Christmas together.

She realized that Mike listened to her. All of you that know Kelly know that this is no small task.   As you can imagine this was both exciting and terrifying.  She opened her Christmas presents and saw that each item was chosen because Mike had heard her.   A big bottle of Delirium Tremens, her all time favorite beer, a package of Nutter Butters, her all time favorite cookie, and an ee cummings compilation.  Her all time favorite poet.
He did it again.
The listening.
He was late coming home from work this evening and I asked him where he’d been.  He smiled that sly Christmas-y smile and wouldn’t tell me.  I assumed he’d been Christmas shopping.
With both hands behind his back he told both Emily and I to pick a hand.   She chose first and he said “Nope, wrong hand.”
I’ll cop to getting slightly more intrigued.  These were specific surprises, one for each of us.
Mine was a  key.  An ornament.  Many years from now it will be the ornament that MQD gave to me the year we bought our house.  The year that we were married.  It is perfect.
We don’t always talk about what I write here.  Sometimes I am not even sure he has read it.  But tonight I had one of those Sam Cooke moments… the moments where he sends me.  He is reading.  He is listening.  Message received.  Loud and clear.  Ornaments are important to his girl.
And he found me the perfect one.
Merry Christmas, MQD.  It was only three years ago that I knew.  When I “found myself wanting to, marry you and take you home.”
And now here we are.  Home.

Nassau and The Worst Day Ever

An ornament we brought back from our honeymoon for Emily

On our honeymoon we were going to go para sailing.   MQD was excited.  So was I.  It was a very honeymoon thing to do.  I had a picture in my head, of the day, of us, holding hands high above a beautiful beach and crystal blue water.  The sun on our faces, smiling.

Only it was windy that day.  And they canceled our excursion.  There was a temptation to try and “do” something else.  Something special.  We strolled around Nassau, hand in hand.  Looking for something “to do.” We went in and out of a few shops, we thought about buying a watch.   And we laughed about how this was “the worst day ever.”  And that our honeymoon was the pits. We bought a Christmas ornament that says “Nassau” for Emily.

The dates that MQD and I plan have a way of not working out.  We have abandoned more concerts halfway through, or not gone at all, choosing instead to stay at dinner an hour or two longer, just talking.   He likes me.  And I like him.  It’s easy to have fun when you’re with your best friend.  I hope I look at him just like this for many, many years to come.

Honeymoon, May 2011