When Mommy Makes Cookies...

Everyone investigates.

Three-Day Honeymoon

There are some things I'm pretty sure Robb didn't consider when he asked me to marry him.

For example, I'm really a dork. You can dress me up, paint my nails, and whisk me out of town, but underneath it all, I just really want to make lists of everything we do, document it with my camera in my red bag, and check for errors in the proofreading. Really. That's all.

I'm easy to please. I'm sure he would agree.

And every time we go somewhere (really only longer trips... not so much the grocery store), I insist on documenting everyone in the car.

So, there's me...

... and there's him. But he always does something less-than-bloggable when I point the camera at him while he's driving. So you just get me.

I'm forever waving my camera out the window to capture the scenery...

both behind and before...

...what's under my feet...

... and what's in my hand.

But it's only because they are my favorite things.

And I don't want to forget what I was drinking or thinking when we listened to our favorite songs.

Loudly.

I'm pretty sure he didn't think about the fact that I would talk to strangers and embarrass him everywhere we go. Everywhere. We go.

Ahem.

For example, it is usually not enough for me to take a picture of the sign as we drive by.

I made him pull over, get out, and take a picture of my Vanna White pose. As traffic drove by and I didn't care one bit. (Many of you reading this have also been thrust into embarrassment by my cockamamie ideas. And you know you loved it.)

And since that was maybe not enough for me,

I made him set the timer, poise the camera on a log, and then run to me while I threw myself into his arms.

Except then the picture didn't take.

(That's his favorite. I promise.)

So then a man pulled over and said, "Now that's just real noss."

(That's how he said it. Like Clark Griswold's Cousin Eddie.)

And then he offered to take one for us, and he wanted to take three shots to make sure we got a good one.

So I made Robb pose, again and again.

Our photographer even said, "Wait for it... and there's the arm."

And so we ended up with multiple shots of the very same pose, and all the while cars were driving by and I was making a spectacle of myself and my sweet husband. I'm pretty sure he didn't account for all this with the wedding ring.

But it's a package deal. It comes with me. I cannot be extracted from my extroverted tendencies, my spontaneity, and my ridiculousness.

I'm the sprinkles on his sundae; he's the string to my kite.

Good thing he likes me. At least enough to keep playing my games.

(Thanks for a good three days, you handsome man. I like running away with you.)

~~~

"It is a curious thought, but it is only when you see people looking ridiculous that you realize just how much you love them."

~ Agatha Christie

Compliments of a Faulty Elevator

So, here's how the story goes: I was about 14 months pregnant with Tyler.

Okay, not really. But I felt big enough to be long overdue, surely bigger than God intended. I was 'great' with child, and we attended a marriage weekend at a hotel in town. The weekend was flawless and powerful in many ways... except for the elevator in the hotel. It was flawed and sadly powerless in many ways.

It kept getting stuck - multiple times a day. "So, take the stairs," you might suggest. But when one is that round with gestation, a third floor hotel room is better accessed by an elevator. Even a faulty one. I was willing to take my chances and hope for a successful elevation.

Normally, I don't have an issue with small spaces, and I could be patient with the rescue. Except for one time. The second 'stuck situation' of the weekend, when everything within an eight-foot radius came to a screeching vertical halt. We were stuck. Again.

The elevator was crammed full - about eight others who were willing to take their hopeful chances. We were standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting. Nothing was moving. For a very long time.

A fellow captive called the front desk from his cell phone, but they nonchalantly said they knew we were stuck, they would help us as soon as possible, and could we please hold. That seemed to be all we could do: hold.

More time passed. The woman in the corner, near the buttons to choose the floor destination (a deceptive display, since we had very few choices), started to have a panic attack. She crouched down to the floor, and her husband sat beside her, fanning her and saying encouraging things.

Our friend with a cell phone called the front desk once more. It turns out, Mr. and Mrs. Front Desk had other things to deal with, and they did not wish to hear from us whiners. Or at least their tone communicated this message.

And that's when it happened: I had a contraction. We were stuck in an elevator, and Tyler thought he would test the boundaries a bit. And then I had another one.

I whispered to Robb, who was standing very close to me, "I'm having contractions."

In case you haven't tried, you can't keep a secret in a jammed elevator full of people. I might as well have broken my own water right there in front of them all. Many people love a story of an unexpected delivery, but very few people want to witness one. I knew I wasn't in labor, but still, I couldn't ignore this tight squeezing. At regular intervals.

The man whipped out his cell phone again, but he didn't bother with the front desk. He went straight to the big wigs: 9-1-1. He explained where we were in the city, where we were in the hotel (somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor), and the demographics in the elevator: eight adults, one woman hyperventilating with a panic attack, and a second woman timing regular contractions.

They were on their way. Immediately.

When we were finally set free, there was indeed a community of rescue workers ready to help us all. The paramedics tended to the woman who could not catch her breath, and they settled me into a corner, all but asking to check my dilation. I really, honestly and truly, knew I was okay. Tyler had stopped his initial descent, and everything within me had settled.

The paramedics weren't so sure. I had to sign my name a dozen times to prove that I had declined their services, I didn't need to be rushed to the hospital, and I would deliver my own child without suing them if in fact I was wrong. Sign, sign, sign.

When it was all said and done, we went back to the hotel's ballroom for another session on communication in our marriage. But here's the interesting thing: from start to finish, contractions notwithstanding, not a single person from the hotel said a word to us.

Nothing. "Ma'am, are you all right? Ma'am, can we get you a glass of water? Ma'am, do you need an epidural?" Nothing.

So, when we got home, Robb called the corporate office. He filed a formal complaint, saying that his "very pregnant wife got stuck in the elevator. Twice."

Could I clarify? The elevator got stuck. I did not get stuck in it. It sounded very much like I got wedged in there, with my broad circumference. "My wife got stuck in the elevator. Twice."

I forgave him for this small misspeak. Because here's the happy ending: he scored us two nights in a hotel, as compensation for our troubles.

All of that to say, two years later, we're redeeming our certificates. We're going away this weekend. Just us. No kids. Two nights away: Compliments of a faulty elevator and some carefully timed contractions.

See you Monday.

Where To Find Me.

We settled in at Monkey Business today.

Side note: That place is amazing. It is safe, creative, brilliantly fun, and abundantly worth the cost of admission. Whoever thought to combine a coffee shop (with free WiFi) and the best playland ever? An absolute genius. That's who. (Those same entrepreneurs could make a fortune if they combine Best Buy and Payless Shoes. I'm just sayin'. It's a fortune in the making, to let him peruse electronics while she shops for shoes.) I may need to carve my initials into a corner table at Monkey Business, so they'll know where to save my seat. I'm in. Me, and my monkeys.

My friend N and I chose our cafe table and declared home base before launching our collective four children into the jungle of fun.

I said, "Boys, this is right where Mommy will be. Do you see? Look at me. Tyler, look at me. Hey. Your eyes, here, please. Thank you. This is where Mommy will be. If you need me, I will be right here, at this table."

And he was off and running, following his brother who had taken off seconds before.

N, in her wisdom, said, "The truth is, if you hear him cry, you'll be right by his side. That's the thing, Tricia. It doesn't matter where you are; it matters where he falls. That's where you'll be."

So, so true. That's where I'll be. Every single time.

I don't want to overspiritualize (ever), but I'm pretty sure there are some great spiritual parallels tucked in there.

Perhaps I have invented my own home base for God, where I think I can leave him while I roam free, only to safely find him when I need him.

Or perhaps I act too quickly, without waiting for his full instructions. Maybe I think I can run from him, only to realize he's the first on the scene when I'm in over my head.

Or perhaps I could use a little less monkey business in my days.

Or perhaps a little more. Perhaps.

Maybe there are no parallels; maybe it was just some maternal wisdom, mom to mom. And there's a lot to be said for that.

Anyway, my kids know where to find me. And find me, they did. Again and again. Because there's something very, very safe about home base, even if you're just passing through.

I'm never far away.