OHHHH it’s supposed to be thankful Thursday. Right. I forgot. Well hey… I only blog like once every hundred days so forgive me for mixing up the order of things.

I’m done whining.

Remember last week when I was whining? I’m done. Thanks for playing. This week I can’t help but be grateful. For like EVERYTHING. See today my husband drove off to work AGAIN. (I’m not supposed to tell you he left cause that puts me in a danger of a stalker coming to my house so forget I said that. Oh and PS my dog BITES). Anyway he left like he does every week. Sigh. And  I felt pitiful for about five minutes after he left and then I got up and got the baby and we played and we came downstairs and ate. Blueberries. And pineapple. And yogurt. And toast. And it was glorious.

I’m LUCKY. Like so super lucky. Yesterday I read this and she talked about her decision to work and her happiness with it. And it reminded me AGAIN that I don’t wanna. I don’t. I don’t wanna leave my baby. The right thing is different for everyone (and you need to be grown up enough to know what the right thing is and to be able to actually ADMIT it) but the right thing for me is to stay home. And I’m lucky because I know it’s the right thing for other moms to stay home too but they can’t, because they need to EAT AND PAY THE ELECTRICITY (and I used to be that mom). So I’m lucky. We aren’t rich. My husband makes a great living but we aren’t going to Hawaii this summer (or like ever) and my kids all need shorts (because they grow like 2 inches a MONTH) and I have to figure out how to make that happen… but we are not  hungry, our electricity is not shut off. I don’t have to worry about how I’m going to pay the water bill. And I am HOME.

I get to go to coffee and have baby playdates.

 

I get to shop for yarn.

I get to make things.

(Like this book for Ella)

 

(LION. Rawr)

 

(whale with zipper mouth)

(Nemo’s that snap on/off)

 

(flowers that come off with buttons)

 

(momma owl with velcro baby hidden inside)

(monkey with peel back banana)

(mama bluebird with her babies that come out of the nest)

(babywearing momma {and under her shirt BOOBIES!})

(Ella likes it)

ALSO this:

Oh also…I get to bake.

Annnd I get to see this:

Every. Single. Day.

Which. Is. Awesome.

I’m so grateful that my husband is not only able but WILLING to leave here every week to go to work so I can STAY HERE. Because here is where I most want to be.

 

Dear Husband,

Thank you for doing what you do. Day in and day out. Every day. When it’s hard. When it’s easy. On the days you get donuts (or tequila or a full nights sleep) I may be jealous. I may not be able to mask it very well (because sometimes I’m a whiny baby) but I thank you. For being smart and valuable enough that Huge Internet Company will pay you and keep you (and even sometimes take you to the beach.) And for caring that our baby be raised by me while you’re away. While you are gone I will keep the house clean, and the baby alive and (mostly) happy. And wait. For you.

love you for always,

Whiny Wife

crafting , crafts , thankful , things I luuuurve

Disclaimer: This post intends no disrespect to working moms or non-working moms or military (wife) moms (who I know deal with this issue on a MUCH LARGER scale) or moms who can’t get a job. Or my husband. Amen.

Thank you for joining me for yet ANOTHER edition of Wordy Whiny Wednesday. Today’s whine will be brought to you by my bad attitude, PMS and generally a childish outlook. If you’re one of those perpetually pleasant people you may want to come back in a couple of days. And if per chance you do make it to the end of the Whine, I thank you kindly and ask that you would please leave a comment… Either 1. Telling me to stop whining and being a baby 2. Telling me you that empathize with my pathetic outlook or 3. Something about cake. Like perhaps I should eat one.

I am JEALOUS of my husband’s job. Whhhhhiiiinnnnnne.

There. I said it. *Sigh*

Now when I say I am jealous I don’t mean I wish I could work. Noooooo. No. No. While I do periodically miss the fulfillment of producing something other than clean laundry, breastmilk and a lovely cupcake I have no desire WHATSOEVER to be in the workforce. Ever. I very much enjoy the ‘work’ of this house. Therefore this Whine should be taken with the grain of salt that it is worth.

We now proceed with the Whining:

You may or may not know that 3 days a week my husband is GONE. Like AWAY. Away from this house. He leaves. Get what I’m saying? He goes to work, but work as it so happens, is in a land far, far from here. He packs a bag. He gets in his car. He drives away. And I. Stay. Here.

Now you should also know that we knew FULL well that this was going to be the case when we were first dating. We knew it when we moved in together. We knew it when we got pregnant. Annnd when we got married. Annnnnd when Ella was born. Annnnnnnd when I quit working. And if we get pregnant again we will know it then too. We KNEW he would have to drive away to work and yet, we did it all anyway. We had to. It was love. But yeah. I don’t like it. Not a fan.

Before I further proceed with the Whine let me say this:

1. My husband is AWESOME. He is kind and caring and loving. He is smart and funny. (Also he’s hawt)
2. My husband does not WANT to leave here. He’d much rather be here changing diapers and playing with his baby girl. He’d rather drive kids all over creation and listen to tales of elementary/jr. high/high school woe. He’d rather sit on the sofa and watch Twin Peaks and snuggle with me at night in OUR bed. But he cannot. Because he has to go far, far away to work.
And
3. He does not GO to work far, far away with the intention of having any fun while I cook and clean and become perpetually sleep deprived. It’s just that sometimes… fun finds him.

Furthermore, I am not suggesting that my husband would rather be playing tennis while I fold the 87th load of laundry this week. But you know, maybe he gets the chance to play tennis (or run or whatever). And pretty sure no laundry. And I’m not saying that he’d rather be having a rare beer with a buddy while I’m bouncing a fussing baby or getting her BACK to sleep for the 11th time, but yeah, sometimes, that too. Beer. No baby crying. Also I’m not saying he’d rather get an ENTIRE HOUR to play guitar with no one grabbing him and asking him for anything AT ALL EVER. But yeah, he’s alone soooo. That. And not saying he’d rather be getting SEVEN STRAIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP IN A MOTHEREFFING ROW than be here with me next to him tossing and turning and co-sleeping with a wiggling 8 month old. But those things are in fact happening because he goes AWAY to WORK.

Ah work.

See most of the time it’s just boring stupid work that I’m sure he wishes he didn’t have to do. He just goes to his big office and does it ALL DAY for like a hundred hours and then goes to a lonely empty room (sounds awesome right?) where he calls me, tells me about his day and then sleeps 7 hours, gets up at the ass crack of dawn then goes BACK to the office where he works out, showers and then goes BACK to his desk, usually well before 8 am. At his desk he gets to have maybe a pastry he finds at a meeting room oooor a bagel on Wednesdays, cause that’s bagel day. And coffee. OH and leftovers he brought to eat from home. But every now and then things happen… like this one time when I was HUGE and pregnant (and I mean HUGE) and I was killing ants upstairs and falling over the cat and sobbing like a HUGE PREGNANT LADY while his office was throwing “us” a baby shower. With CHAMPAGNE. And CAKE people. CAKE. And when he called he said, “It was so nice. They gave us a shower.” And I replied lovingly, ‘WELL WHERE THE HELL IS MY EFFING CHAMPAGNE THEN?” Because I was not invited to the shower. I was only invited to the ant killing and falling down party. And ha, whaddya know I was the ONLY PERSON at that party. And sometimes he gets to go to lovely lunch where there is food that is not peanut butter that he doesn’t have to pay for. Food like lobster ravioli. And wine. Or beer. Or other drinks that are not cold coffee or water that tastes like feet (no really). And I am eating a stale sandwich that I made like 2 hours ago but never got to because someone started crying and then something else and something else. Etc. Etc. You get the point. And sometimes, ok only once so far but still, this is his view for two days:

THAT. IS. HIS. VIEW.

(In case you can’t tell. That is the OCEAN.)

Because in the world of the internet, companies fight to gain and keep loyalty. They fight hard. And dirty. And apparently that means a 4 star resort in Santa Cruz. Where there is a big soft EMPTY bed with no baby keeping you up all night. And there is no laundry. At ALL. And where they will cook for you. FOR YOU. And there are no DISHES. And they will give you an open bar (that my actually be untrue, but there will for sure be plenty of beer). And they will let you play ON THE BEACH. GAMES. On the BEACH, people. The Beach.

And I’m jealous. It’s the ugliest of all the seven deadly sins, I KNOW, but there it is. Rearing it’s ugly sinning deadly head. And he says “the weather isn’t going to be very good” OR “there is fire soot {from the BONFIRE on the BEACH} and I’m having to breathe it” or “I’ll try not to have too much fun”. And I say. PLEASE. SHUT. THE. HELL. UP (that’s hyperbole, I’d never actually say that) be quiet. Because I have a migraine from the screaming AND I WANT TO RUN DOWN THE STREET AND POSSIBLY TO THE NEXT TOWN AND MAYBE PULL A FORREST GUMP RIGHT NOW (I’ve never actually had a migraine. Also I’d die if I ran more than 3 miles.)

*sigh*

I feel bad about myself.

Because this is my view:

This is NOT THE BEACH PEOPLE. Even if there is some water somewhere in that hose.

But also there’s this:

So I KNOW I really CAN’T complain. I know this. Because I’m getting to do what I want. I’m getting to be with our sweet little baby every hour of every day. I get to see her grow and change and I know I’m INCREDIBLY LUCKY. I know.

It’s just that I REALLY would like to be lucky on the beach sometimes.

Thanks for playing.

Anyone get this? Anyone? Bueler?

marriage , messed up crap , mothering , wordy whiny wednesday , work