True Love: A tale of two granolas

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Hi friend!!!

As you know, Tygh and I celebrated our tenth anniversary last week.  As in, 10 years of being married.  Ten years of “Pookey” and “Schnookums.”  Ten years of “Yes, dear ” and “Of course, my love.”  Essentially, ten years of perfect harmony and bliss.

Or, at least something very close.

Yes.  It was perfect. For awhile.  But then something important happened - something that changed everything.   Something that I feared would break us.

Last week, Tygh confessed to me that there was something he’d been thinking about for awhile.  Something he’d been dreaming about quietly, behind my back.  Something he’d even researched a bit when I wasn’t home.

In lieu of eating our usual, amazing, perfect morning granola – our granola quotidienne – the one we have been enjoying for years – Tygh had recently decided he was ready to try something new.  A different granola.  With different ingredients.  With…with…dare I say it?  With quinoa.

Quin-whaaaaaaat?

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Momma's See-cret

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Ah, Libs -

What is it about coming home?  I mean, to your parents' house?  I have a place of my own, a husband, kids, career – and yet, there is something about driving up to my childhood home that makes me let out a big breath and relax.  I’d like to say it’s the smell of the surrounding apple and cherry orchards that are heavy with ripening fruit. Or that it’s the anticipation of the summer sunset that is always red and orange and stunning.  Or even that it’s all the fond memories I have: you know, the ones of torturing my little brother or sneaking out with high school friends. 

But the truth is, coming “home” is so great because my mom is there.  And, as you can attest, nobody – but nobody - pampers like a mom.

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Let's Dish

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Hey you-

So, remember when we were living in France after graduation, and there were times—especially in the beginning—when we would experience overwhelming pangs of homesickness? When we’d question our radical decision to move to Europe when all our friends were taking a year off to ski, hang out with each other, and just generally live the Good Life before becoming Grown-Ups and settling in to start the Rest Of Our Lives?

Thousands of miles away, you and I would cope with moments of self-doubt by finding little ways to treat ourselves—indulging in something truly “French” that would provide reassurance about our decision to pursue this path.  We’d allow ourselves that third pain au chocolat, spend an afternoon smelling fancy perfumes at Galleries Lafayette, or even just wander around eeeeeeeeeextra slowly through the supermarché? (As foodies, let’s face it, there was no better pastime than cruising the aisles of the market looking at exotic French yogurts.)

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Easy Beansy Beautiful

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So, after months of research and deliberation, I have finally done it.  I bought the Clarisonic Mia. 

It was time.  Post-partum skin notwithstanding, I’m now officially in my mid-thirties.  If I don’t start pushing the envelope on my skin care “regime,” I will be behind you and the rest of our peers, all of whom seem to have known that using hand-soap as facial cleanser is probably not the best idea.

What finally did it, you ask?  Blue Mercury! It’s here! In the great Pacific Northwest!  I took you there, didn’t I?  When you visited me in Philly?  It’s this fabulous luxury beauty product boutique where you can try EVERYTHING!  The staff is very knowledgeable and helpful.  Plus, they are great about returns.  Anyway, their first Seattle store opened up and, while waiting to take Harvey to the doctor for his 8-week appointment, I popped in. 

After trying a few lipsticks (I’m just loving anything bright pink these days) and rubbing like ten different lotions on various exposed body parts, I saw it.  The Mia.  Now, I have been researching this thing ad nauseum for months.  I’m not sure what I have been waiting for.  Perhaps a spontaneous reversal of the aging process? A sudden influx of money, for which we have no other use? Counter space? Whatever it is, it hasn’t happened.  It was time.  So, I splurged.

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I've Never Spelt This Way Before

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Sweet, sweet amie.  How lovely it is to wake at 3:45am to a hungry infant and see your text and know that I am not alone. 

I honestly didn’t think it was possible to be this tired and still be awake. I mean, I’ve been tired before.  Really really tired.  30-hour–shift-in–residency-tired.  But, at least then, there was a mandate requiring I get a compensatory 16 hours off of any duty, at all, for rest and recuperation.  Don’t pilots have the same thing?  And truck drivers? Why not parents?  I’m going on three years of sleep deprivation, here.

Remember when that study came out showing that driving while tired is akin to driving while intoxicated? So, can that be extended to parenting?  I mean, am I just as useless to my children tired as I would be drunk?  A poor comparison on a couple of levels.  For one, I think we can both agree that I am way more fun when drunk than when tired.  And two, no one will ever arrest me for being too tired to parent.  Even when I wish they would because at least then, I could get some sleep!  No way a noisy cell is any more disruptive to sleep patterns than a screaming infant or a sick preschooler.

The true problem with this intense fatigue is that it makes me the absolute worst version of myself. My patience falls precipitously to unfairly low levels (I mean, how can my just-past-three-year-old daughter forget to flush every fucking time?), I look hideous (those poor bastards at my local grocery asked me today if I needed help - not “help bagging,” or “help out to [my] car,” just “help”), and I’m overly suspicious of the motives of everyone in my family (currently, I’m convinced that little Harvey, barely 7 weeks old, is taunting me from his basinet where he is visibly REMing).  What. The. Fuck. Question mark.

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