The Do Not Forget Things

Scrambling to run out the door. Five minutes late and in a NW downpour, of course.

Diaper bag restocked? Yes.

Snacks packed? Yes.

Entertainment bag ready to go? Yes.

Everybody pottied or in a fresh dipe? Yes.

Rain boots on, everyone? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.

And then ...

"Logan, did you brush your teeth?"

Guilty shoulder shrug, slight grimace.

And I lost it. The stress, the rush, the late night licking envelopes to send support packets to churches--it all hit me in one, sick rush.

I lost it.

I sucked breath through my teeth, rolled my eyes, threw my hand on my hip, looked at the ceiling. Then I got that lanky, oversized boy square in my sights and let him have it.

"LO-gan! This is. not. o.k. Son! YOU HAVE GOT TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH! You are nine years old! Nine! Do I really have to remind you to brush your teeth every morning? Ser.i.ous.ly?"

His lower lip trembled. His big, beautiful blue eyes shifted shamefully to the floor, where he couldn't see his whole line of siblings staring at him in his moment of disgrace. His cheeks flushed white, then pink, then red.

And his shoulders? Those proud, tall shoulders of that burgeoning man-boy that spread so elegantly, reminding me daily of the handsome guy he's becoming? They were hunched. Cowed into submission by the angry words I was spitting in his face.

Just then, the face that I saw before me wasn't Logan at all. It was the image of a friend who has a nine year-old little man of her own. A boy who, sadly, will take a bride long after his Momma is gone and unable to help him pin the corsage to his tux. A boy who will not likely hand his firstborn into his own Momma's waiting arms one day and whisper, "Here you go, Gramma." A boy who will brush his teeth without his Momma's nagging for many, many years before he is grown.

The tears came before I knew what was happening. I grabbed my boy by his bent shoulders, hugged him close and begged his forgiveness. Pressed my lips to his forehead while it is still low enough for me to reach, wrapped my arms around him while he is still small enough to fit snugly inside my hugs. Loved on him. Felt him slowly, gingerly, uncoil and accept the kisses I couldn't stop myself from lavishing on him.

Because really, I don't give a whip about whether or not he brushes his teeth. Not in the big picture. What I care about is that I have this boy--this young man-- to love and cherish. I have Logan here, now. 

Those are the big things. The Do Not Forget Things.

The teeth? Well, they matter. But not more than my son. Not more than his heart, his pride, his sense of what it is to be loved and accepted. I'm just grateful that God, in His infinite love for both Logan and me, pulled me back just far enough to remind me of how blessed I am. Sure, I've got a boy whose idea of oral hygiene is, shall we say, lacking. But I've got a boy. I am blessed to be his mother. God willing, I will watch him lose every single baby tooth in his head and even be the one to hold his hand at the oral surgeon's office as they wrest the wisdom teeth from his jaw. I will most likely cry when he shows me the ring he's selected for his intended. I'll walk over the threshold of his first home and watch him crackle with excitement as he tells me about their plans for the place. I'll have lunch with him some day when I'm 70 and he's 43, and I'll tell him that he's too young to be worried about this or that. I will be a part of his life, and he mine.

That, well ... that's a Do Not Forget Thing. That's the stuff that matters.

Dating Mr. Blandings

Mr. Blandings and I don't get out much, and it's killing me.

You got hung up on that first part, didn't you? It was "Mr. Blandings and I don't get out much," that you heard, right? Well, go ahead and scrape your jaw off the floor: I tell you, it's true! Sadly, an outing alone is something of an anomaly in the matrix at this point. There was a time when the thought of going out for dinner and a movie alone, without my precious little ones, was completely unappetizing to me. I didn't want to miss a moment. Couldn't surrender an ounce of control. It must have been new mommy haze because I'll be honest--at this point, I am totally, completely, 150% o.k. with someone else plunking my little angels into their beds and flipping off the lights.

I can miss a reading of "Goodnight Moon" and be o.k. Someone else really can help find the mouse.

My older kids can get to bed an hour and a half late and be o.k. Consistency isn't that important to me.

I'm over the "What? Me? Leave my angels in the hands of another? Surely you jest!"

Now I'm stuck, utterly, in a new reality. The "...it's killing me" reality. We could also call this We Aren't Rich Enough To Go Out Because Paying a Babysitter To Watch Five Kids is More Expensive Than Dining at a Four-Star Eatery.

Pity us. We are a flirty young couple stuck living the lives of old married folks!

Our nearest family is far enough away that the plane ticket for a night out is well ... prohibitive. :-) Yes, Benny lives a mile away but frankly, combining our two broods for one evening is anything but relaxing for the husband called upon to give horseback rides, kick soccer balls, and endure WeeSing tunes belted out at full volume over a hastily thrown-together meal at a table overrun with wiggly bodies and gleeful clapping.

And heaven forbid said man actually had to work that day.

So, Mr. Blandings and I don't get out much. Instead, we set up date nights here at the house. I feed the kids early, we send them off to bed slightly before bedtime, and together, Mr. Blandings and I whip up our favorite Thai dishes. Then we settle in to play a game, watch a movie, or read.

It's sweet stuff. Romantic. But still, kind of routine.

I find that at this point in our marriage, I am hungering for more togetherness. If I could turn back time, I can't tell you how many extra in-law sponsored date nights I'd indulge in. If I had relatives near ... well, I might be taking advantage of them, that's all I'm saying. I'm not sure what this new stage in my heart is, but all of a sudden, my husband--who I've always cherished, loved, and considered my best friend--is suddenly always, ever on my mind.

We're been married 13 and a half years, and yet, seeing Mr. Blandings across a crowded soccer field still sends my heart tittering. Hearing his voice as he says his pet name for me is simply enough to make me feel like a giggling, frivolous schoolgirl.

I am, simply, in love.

Oh, yes, I adore my children. They are precious beyond precious, loved beyond loved.

But my husband? Now, there's the stuff that dreams are made of. :-)

So you know what? I really, really want to date my husband. I really, really want to look into his eyes across a table in a dimly-lit restaurant and talk about something other than diapers and school schedules. I want to hear his heart. I want to debate current events. I want to hear him tell me how much he loves me.

I want to be young and crazy and completely romantic.

Any ideas how to do that with five kids under the roof?