Lover

photo credit: Serena Grace Photography

It’s the slow, steady rhythm of the percussions—that reminds me of a heartbeat—that draws me in every time. It’s deliberate but gentle, swaying but steady, syncopated yet soothing. Taylor Swift’s album, Lover, has been steadily streaming in my earbuds this past year, but it’s this title track that hits a particular chord. In it, she sings about mundane things, like keeping the Christmas lights up on their home until January (don’t we all?), that make up the life she wants to spend with her lover. But it’s the chorus that really gets me. “Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close? Forever and ever… Take me out, take me home. You’re my, my, my… lover.” The requests are so simple, yet suppose a trust and comfort, a security, but also a vulnerability in revealing one’s most tender self. Within the bridge, the “lover” is belted with such girlish glee, I imagine her with arms flung wide open in pure delight. It is young, contented love at its best.

It takes me back to the night during our Freshman year in college when Wayne and I got caught in the rain while delivering my research paper across campus (straight out of a vintage movie, I tell you—complete with the antiquated method of turning in a physical assignment in person)… to the first time he brought me back to his hometown of Sacramento, and we took a long, meandering walk in the evening around the greenbelt levy, only to be eaten alive by mosquitoes and thought it was well worth it… to our drawn-out goodbyes that had a way of stretching into the night.

As I listen and mouth the lyrics, I can’t help but feel a pang in realizing: I relate to this song… as a memory. Sometime along these 12 ½ years and churning out three kids, our marriage grew up and out of the honeymoon phase. These days, my requests to my lover are more, “Can you take the kids where you go? Can you leave me all alone?” (Forever and ever.)

In all seriousness, though, can I just say… marriage is hard. And pandemic life hasn’t made it any easier.

During these last 11 months, my moods have sometimes swung like a wrecking ball. Being home all day, every day with young children—without the buffer of everyday interruptions and interactions to grease the wheel of constant home-life—has turned me into a lunatic. (I know I’m not alone!) Sometimes I want to cry, though I can’t even pinpoint exactly the reason. Other times, it’s a simmering anger. Most of the time, it’s just a general melancholy with bouts of grumpiness. And all of this has naturally taken its toll on our relationship. In these last 11 months, we have fought over a waterslide, a wrong McDonald’s order, how we structure our family devotional time, and most recently, how Wayne agreed with me TOO much. (Yes, I know, but you don’t know the details, okay?)

Though I’ve always felt and known our differences acutely, I haven’t felt our differences so… frequently as I have during this pandemic that has acted as a crucible for probably all of us to some extent, burning away the dross, revealing the core of who we are. And who we are—Wayne and I—has never felt so diametrically opposed.

A few months ago, I came across the poem “Epiphany” by Ted Hughes from his collection, Birthday Letters, about a man who encounters a boy on the street, selling a fox. The man actually contemplates buying the fox, ruminates over how to care for it, how his wife might react, what the fox would bring to his family… In the end, he lets the fox go, but not without looking back at that fork in his life, wondering “what if.” And it seems like such an ordinary, innocuous story, until the end:

“If I had grasped that whatever comes with a fox

Is what tests a marriage and proves it a marriage—

I would not have failed the test. Would you have failed it?

But I failed. Our marriage had failed.”

That ending was a sucker-punch, and I literally gasped and cried at the last line—not because this is true for us in its entirety, but I can still relate to it on so many levels. How many times have we brought home our own “foxes”—becoming parents; bringing home another baby and yet another; making the transition to a one-income household; making the transition to a one-income household with me as the one at home, a woman with so much ambition and extroverted energy that sometimes I feel like I’m dying inside while I care for my children, even as my heart simultaneously overflows; quarantining together during a pandemic?? And each time, these trials test and (we hope) prove our marriage. I cried because I understand that tension, the strain, the trying so hard and still the regret of how opposite two people can be. There is no judgment when I read this poem, no “whoa, that will never be us” rosy invincibility of our younger selves—only empathy and heartbreak, because I understand the precariousness of a marriage meant to last forever.

On the day of our wedding, we had only an idea of what our vows meant. They were words that sounded honorable and right, and so with earnestness and sincerity and stars in our eyes, we uttered these champagne promises, not knowing the full weight they actually carried.

What did I know of commitment? Of forever? Of a covenant not yet tested? What do I know now, except that commitment is weighty, and forever is much longer than 12 ½ years.

And what do we do when the champagne has flattened? When the glitter has rubbed off? When your husband is giving off some serious roommate vibes with his overgrown, shaggy hair? When your wife is circling the cage, snarling and eyeing you with contempt because you didn’t break down the boxes for recycling?

Standing at the alter those 12 ½ years ago, bolstered by youthful invincibility, “forever” was an opportunity, never an oppression. It was young, contented love at its best. But did we know anything about love?

Maybe… we did have an inkling. As a belated gesture towards Valentine’s Day this year (a day that usually passes with zero fanfare around here), Wayne left a video on my computer desktop for me to find. In it he sings “Water Under the Bridge” by Jars of Clay, recalling that this was the same song he had played for me all those years ago when he asked me to marry him. It’s not your usual doe-eyed song of sweethearts, but even as two people who were about to embark on Forever, we knew, at least a sliver, of the effort it would take to get there. And now, it means so much more.

“I do not love you the way I did when we met.
There are secrets and arguments I haven't finished yet.
But it's only that grace has outlived our regret that we're still here.

So maybe we can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge,
We can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge.”

I cried then, too. And I realized that I chose a man who not only fought for me when we were young, contented lovers, but is still fighting for me, clad in all my surliness and the same hoodie sweatshirt I’ve been wearing for a year. And that, I should think, far outweighs all our very real differences that remain, that will probably be there forever.

Someone once told me, before I was married, that we often want to find someone we can go skiing with. We want the excitement, the adventure! But who we should actually marry is the person who, if all the lifts suddenly closed, we could spend the rest of the day with in the lodge. Well……. isn’t it funny that the lifts may currently be open but everything else is closed! And we have been spending days upon days (11 months’ worth of days!) together in this lodge.

A year into our marriage, I had the giddy wisdom to write that marriage was a reflection of God’s love for us and it was a way to hone us, to make us more like Him… and that’s still true 12 ½ years later as we continually lay aside our own rights (even if through gritted teeth) and reach over with grace, just as Jesus did for us on the cross. It will be true 12 ½ years more, if we make it that far, and another 12 ½ years and another. We don’t do it perfectly. Sometimes the hand I offer to Wayne during prayer is like a dead fish, but we fall on our knees together anyway, because if we make it, it is by God’s grace. If we make it, it is because of the grace we, in turn, give to one another. It is what tests a marriage and proves a marriage.

“And the years roll by, and you hold my hand, while the shadows stretch over the land.
Crumble and fall in my arms, and we'll struggle to hold on.
Waters they rise and they carry our hopes and dreams away, baby we can stay, stay.”

So here we are. Twelve and a half years into our marriage, 11 months and counting into lodge-life. Our marriage continues to be tested and refined by fire (if only because I keep setting everything aflame). But we’re still here. Still hopeful, when we can muster it. Still working. Just maybe less naïve than before. And our song, were I to adapt Taylor Swift’s “Lover” to meet us where we are today—less buoyant, though by the grace of God, intact and drawing from a growing depth—is: “I will go where you go… We will keep working to be this close… forever and ever.” It doesn’t have the same ring, but it’s a good place to be. I’m waiting for Taylor, maybe in 10 years, to start writing about seasoned, old-people love, tired love… tenacious love.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The day Lucy died, we should have been celebrating instead. It was July 2, a Sunday, Ryan’s one-month birthday—a day that, were we more true to the traditions of our heritage, would have been marked with feasting and red envelopes stuffed with money, portending a future filled with fullness and good fortune. But instead we were putting our dog down, and there clearly was no such merriment.

Just two days before, on the heels of an all-night trip to the ER with our feverish newborn, we received the devastating news that Lucy’s bladder was filled—FILLED—with stones. On the x-ray, it was clear that these fist-sized rocks were not going anywhere on their own. The doctor recommended surgery—on Monday at the latest—and just like that, we were slammed with the immense decision of going through with the costly procedure or euthanizing Lucy.

Lucy was our Pennysaver pup and had been with us from nearly the beginning of our marriage nine years ago, essentially growing with us as we became real adults. “Thirteen adorable puppies” was what the ad had read. That night in early January, because we were unprepared for the sudden addition to our family, Lucy slept in a Crate and Barrel box salvaged from the stack of wedding gift debris still waiting its turn for the recycling bin. She was my companion during that first winter of our marriage, when the frost nipped extra hard. I was a recent transplant from sunny San Diego where winter means (possibly) putting away the flip-flops for a month or two, and with no friends or job of my own, I had spent day after aimless day in our dingy once-bachelor pad going stir-crazy from loneliness and cabin fever. Lucy was my bright spot then and gave some purpose and structure to my day. After all, I was a pup-mom now! All day we played rope and “drag” (a game that is exactly as it sounds: I dragged Lucy around the house by the end of her rope, an activity Lucy especially loved); at night, I dutifully got her up from her cardboard box and took her out for multiple potty breaks. “I’m so tired!” I remember wailing to Wayne, as I collapsed on our bed in exhaustion. Oh, how I chuckle at my “exhaustion” then (though I suppose it’s telling that I was never a baby person even at that point). It was good training, though, for the real deal, a practice in selflessness and expanding our hearts, in patience when she chewed up my designer flats, and disciplining when she did it once more (and wisdom never to buy designer flats again!).

As that winter warmed into spring, we started running. Around and around the levee and green belt and Sacramento’s Pocket area and all the way to marathon shape; together we trained for multiple races. Though I eventually made friends and found a job, there was always time for rope and drag (until she grew too heavy—a day, I’m sure, Lucy regarded with dismay). She was there when, as newlyweds, we worked to make our house a home—me, blithely (and unevenly) coating our living room with Barn Door Red, because I loved the name even more than the paint shade. With each subsequent home we grew into, the tips of Lucy’s fur reflected all my varying color choices and ever-evolving tastes.

When we had Caedmon, and then Addie, the dynamics of our family changed dramatically. I’m sure she felt this tangible shift in the social order: these new varmints that Wayne and I had brought home one day were suddenly taking all of our time and attentions. They let out funny sounds and smelled even worse, but for some reason we insisted on keeping them, so she scooted over and made room for them. But she was just as loyal to us even then. She was up with me at all hours of the night, and she would sit by me in the glider as I nursed the babies, and she would follow me when I changed their diapers, then plod behind me as we both collapsed into our respective beds, waiting for the next midnight feeding.

And when she and I matured into middle-age together, me with the remnants of baby bulge, we both hit the pavement once again, and though she regarded with suspicion the strange contraption with very scary wheels that I now pushed the babies in, she never flaked once on our running dates. Though the fur around her muzzle was showing just a touch of gray, her quick gait revealed a youth that remained from our levee days. She could still run like the wind—especially when she spotted a squirrel on the horizon.

It was on the day we brought Ryan home from the hospital that we first noticed something was wrong with Lucy. Never one to make accidents inside, Lucy had left small puddles of urine in various corners of the house. In our absence, she hadn’t been let out frequently enough, we had reasoned. It was almost another month—a crazy month of transitioning to life with a newborn, family drama, and sick kids all around—before we realized that something more serious was going on with Lucy.

In that last month of Lucy’s life—that first of Ryan’s—I hadn’t realized how relatively happy we were. Sure, we were collapsing with exhaustion, drowning in the needs of our tiny children, struggling, elbow-deep in parenthood, but our family—for that one month—was wholly complete.

The weekend we lost Lucy will forever be ingrained in my memory as one fraught not just with grief, but of ill-timed events and great physical strain. The all-night trip to the ER with Ryan, where I had helplessly and heart-wrenchingly watched him get poked and prodded, had left me emotionally and physically drained and totally unprepared for the news of Lucy’s diagnosis. I left the vet’s office—sobbing and shaking as much from the news as from sheer exhaustion—with a major decision to make about Lucy’s future, but with a weekend agenda that was wholly unyielding to calm, unhurried, thoughtful deliberation. We had kids to shuttle back and forth to VBS, a baby shower to finish planning and then attend, and Ryan’s follow-up appointment with the pediatrician, on top of our usual duties in caring for three kids, the last still feverish and fussy and who demanded so much extra care (as if newborns didn’t demand enough care as is). Our lives were going at a million miles a minute, and we were so, SO tired. It had been nearly 36 hours since I had slept, a whole month since I had slept well. Our brains were barely functioning, and it was in this run-down state that we had to make a decision about Lucy—and quickly. Lucy was deteriorating before our eyes. By Saturday night, she was already completely incontinent, and her urine was tinged with blood. She was sequestered in the kitchen, which for her, being apart from us, was the misery we would be putting her out of. In the months that followed, I’ve replayed the events of that decisive weekend over and over, scrutinizing every move and detail that led us to our final decision, and I ask bitterly, why did Lucy’s fate have to hinge on that crazy, beleaguered, hell of a weekend?

Lucy was 8 ½ when we ended her life. When we decided, based solely on numbers, that she—technically a senior dog—was too old for the surgery the vet had recommended, that the bill would be too high, that her odds for complete recovery without possible relapse were low. In our pragmatism, we weighed the options against the pressing reality of our growing family. And in our pragmatism, we opted to terminate her existence. The morning of Lucy’s last day, we took the whole family for a walk to the park, where we had a picnic with Lucy on the grass, though at that point, she was refusing even the tidbits of sandwich meat we were offering to her. It was the return home that was hardest, that final stretch of sidewalk that lay between us and the car that we would coax her into and drive her to her final goodbye. I sobbed then and all the way to the moment the vet injected her veins with the numbing cocktail and then the one that stopped her heart. And I sobbed as I watched the life, the sunshine drain out of her eyes until what remained of her was just a glassy stare. Oh, how suddenly and quickly our Lucy was here and then gone.

For the next few months, in a mix of postpartum hormones, baby blues, and exhaustion, I felt the full weight of our unalterable decision. It was a reluctant pragmatism that drove our hand, but now, on this side of regret, I say to hell with pragmatism, because pragmatism does nothing to assuage a broken, bleeding heart. I cried several times a week, sometimes a day. Though life’s busyness and keeping up with three kids offered ample distraction—something I was both thankful for and indignant over—always, there was an undercurrent of grief and regret running just below the surface of my composure. It was upon those rare moments to myself, though, when the kids were asleep or after a midnight nursing session that left me awake in bed, when I now made the trek to and from the crib alone, that I most felt the absence of Lucy. And the floodgates would rupture, and Wayne would wake to find me huddled in a ball, sobbing uncontrollably next to him in bed.

But it wasn’t just the grief. It was the unsurmountable guilt that crushed my being. Guilt that we could have saved her (because she still had so much life in her!) but didn’t, that we literally led her to the slaughter. Guilt that I didn’t give her as much attention after the kids were born. Guilt that I resented so much her fur and dirt she tracked in, that I would hiss at her to stop barking during naptimes, or grumble when she got underfoot. And guilt that I was feeling so much grief over a dog, when I have friends who have recently lost parents and other (human) loved ones. But grief is still grief. She was still a life that we had cared for, a life who responded to and reciprocated our love. And when a life like that is taken away, though she was “just a dog”, it still leaves a void that is palpable.

About a month ago, my grief and guilt boiled to a tipping point. In one of those arguments that isn’t really about what originally sparked the argument in the first place (a home security system, in our case), I blurted out to Wayne in thinly veiled accusations that it was his pragmatism that killed Lucy and had he not been so concerned about saving money, we could have saved her instead. Yeah, I went there... I was sobbing and shouting and so out of control. I wanted Lucy back so badly, and when blaming myself wasn’t enough, I needed to blame someone else. In a most desperate and selfish act of self-preservation, I needed to cast off my guilt to bring some order and control back into my world that had become so dark and full of irreparable regret.

And you know what Wayne did? He took it. My husband, who loved Lucy just as much as I did, who grieved her as well—though more quietly, who had also been dead-tired that fateful weekend when we made our decision together amidst a million engagements and a sick newborn, who was and is always doing his absolute best to look out for the overall well-being of our family… that husband took the blame that I was passively (yet so aggressively) hurling at him. Not in a spineless, groveling-at-my-feet-for-forgiveness kind of way, but a strong, “okay, lay it on me; I can take it” kind of acceptance. Because he could see my brokenness. Because he loved me that much. Because he saw that I needed him to be there more than I was pushing him away.

The next day, he wrote me a card: “I can’t bring Lucy back, but I do want you to know that it was one of the hardest decisions that I’ve had to make in our marriage. I don’t blame you if you blame me for her loss, but I did care for her as much as you did. I also don’t desire you to change how you feel or how strongly you feel about Lucy… I know that it has been a devastatingly difficult last half year for you, so take what time you need to process… I will bear what I need to bear and be as kind and patient as I can… and give grace when it is needed.” And then he quoted a song that we had both just seen so beautifully performed on So You Think You Can Dance. “The song that I’ve had stuck in my head all week goes like this:

When the rain is blowing in your face,

And the whole world is on your case,

I could offer you a warm embrace,

To make you feel my love.”

And something near-miraculous happened: I stopped randomly bursting into tears and mourning in the middle of the night. Wayne willingly shouldered my guilt and became my scapegoat, which I don’t even know is healthy from a psychological standpoint, but his sacrifice did allow me the space I needed to heal. And that—his selfless, loving act—is a beautiful thing. (I know Someone else who did that for me, and I’m grateful for a husband who emulates that kind of love and grace for me every day.)

                                   

When Lucy first died four months ago, I had wanted to write the best tribute to her. I wanted to share what an amazing dog she was, to follow the expected story arc of delightful stories from her life, tragic end, then tearful but inspiring goodbye. But I didn’t have the words. I was so filled with grief and remorse and guilt—I was all bitter, without a trace of sweet. I am still sad, and could I do it all over, I would save her life in an instant. Most days I still want to go to sleep and, upon waking, thank the Ghost of Christmas Future for showing us our folly, but I am no longer consumed and controlled by the bottomless grief and guilt that had so overtaken me before. With my newfound healing, I started writing the story I wanted to tell about Lucy, and in doing so, I realized that Lucy’s story is also a story of us.  

Who would have known, 8 ½ years ago when we were pulling out that Crate and Barrel box for Lucy, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, so carefree as we camped out on the ground next to her, that we would return to those same positions the night before her death, this time watching and crying over her failing health. We would have two kids asleep upstairs and one sick and fussy newborn in our arms with us on the ground. Our minds and bodies would be spent, but our relationship, solid. Solid enough that when I lashed out at Wayne, he not only took the blows but shrouded me with his embrace. 8 ½ years ago, who could have predicted that. Who could have foreseen the joys and heartaches, the exhaustion, the wrinkles, the extra pounds, the stupid fights, the side-splitting laughter, the comforting silence, the growing up and the growing love that these 8 ½ years would afford.

They say that “dogs know”. And while all of Lucy’s life, I took pride in her beauty, I highly questioned her brains. Even so, I’d like to think that Lucy knew, and that even as we led her by the leash to her end, that when I looked into her eyes and lied and told her it was okay, that she was looking back and telling me that, yes, it is okay. Or, at least, it will be okay. And since we’re talking make-believe, if there truly was a dog heaven, Lucy would be there high in the sky, with her chin tilted up in her beguiling grin and waving her curly tail. Lucy was our primer for all of life’s major milestones—starting a family, purchasing a house and building a home together, and finally, death. The tearing down that is grief has been devastating; its repercussions, toxic. 8 ½ years ago, just six months into a marriage so new and fragile, I wonder how this strain would have driven us apart. But now—literally a lifetime later—we are experiencing this rebuilding and healing and togetherness that is made possible by those 8 ½ years of us. And Lucy—she was there for that, too.

Our "gotcha" moment when we chose her to be ours

(photo by Emily To)

(photo by Emily To)

drag!

Lucy, meet Caedmon. Caedmon, Lucy.

Our last photo of Lucy and the only one of our entire family

Celebrating 5 Years

Wayne and I celebrated our five year anniversary yesterday by going out to dinner at a nice restaurant in town.  Yes, Caedmon cried when we left (when does he not?), but even as I pried his fingers from around my neck, my spirits were high.  We were going out!  At night!  Together!  It was almost surreal, driving the familiar streets... but at night.

With nothing else open during the late evenings in Elk Grove, we were home by 9:45, but that short excursion out together was so incredibly revitalizing, not just for my spirits, but I know for our relationship, as well.  Uninterrupted conversation and undivided attentions for un-sleepy spouses can do wonders.... imagine that.  (Gifts of jewelry also help.  See my new necklace below... EEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!)

I remember when we were first married, older couples advised us to always keep up with date nights.  Okay, we thought, and diligently applied this sage advice for the first four years.  Oh, yes, this is fun, we said to one another, as each week, we checked off restaurants we wanted to try, sometimes even twice in that time frame.  Did we want ice cream afterwards?  Sure.  Did we want to watch a movie in the theaters?  Why not?  (But only if there was a coupon.)  Did we want to spend three and a half weeks gallivanting all over Europe for our summer break?  Absolutely.  And then Caedmon came along and changed EVERYTHING... including my relationship with my very best friend.  We no longer have as much time or, to be honest, the energy to spend that level of quality time with one another... zoning out in front of the television after Caedmon has gone to bed because we're so dog-tired just isn't the same.

And so now I understand the advice of the Wise Ones so much clearer.  It is hard to carve out time with Wayne, when all I want to do in the evenings is read or work on a crossword.  It is hard to leave Caedmon, knowing he has a difficult time with us gone.  It is hard, even, to find the motivation to actually put on something that is not cotton and make myself look more than just presentable. It is so much harder now to keep up with date nights, but I'm already realizing that it's a worthwhile endeavor.

So I had a really good time last night...

hint, hint, Wayne.  ;)

What, I not only brushed my hair but curled it?  This must be a special occasion.

At Boulevard Bistro in Elk Grove.

Boy Cookies

I have a term for cookies that guys make.  I call them "boy cookies", because, well, they taste like a boy made them.  Not that that's necessarily a horrible thing, but they really do taste... different.  You know what I'm talking about.  They're a little to a lot drier.  A little to a lot denser.  They're a little to a lot just not as good.

I've been bugging Wayne to try his hand at boy cookies for some time now, you know, just for kicks.  I wanted to see what makes boy cookies boy cookies, if it's the same recipe used by everyone else.  (Wayne says it's so I can watch and laugh at him, which is also partially true).  Up until this point, Wayne just hasn't had the desire to help me figure out the nuances of the boy cookie (or to be laughed at mockingly by me), but one fateful day, I made a bet with Wayne, which he lost, and guess what?  It's boy cookie time!

So we manned our respective stations--Wayne behind the mixer, and me, perched at the kitchen counter, kicking my legs in eager anticipation for the show ahead of me.  I giggled when Wayne clumsily cracked the eggs and proceeded to SHAKE out the egg whites, as one shakes out the last bits of cereal from its box.  I literally guffawed when Wayne separated the egg yolk and then didn't know where to put it, and so set it gingerly back in its shell, tried to balance it on the counter, then resorted to a plate (a little prep bowl, perhaps?).  And then I snickered when Wayne proceeded to sprinkle in each ingredient, instead of just dumping it in to the mixing bowl... With the Olympics on in the background, I cheered on the US Men's 4x100m swimming relay... I watched Grevers explode to the front with his backstroke and then Japan creep into the lead after the breaststroke leg... looked over, and Wayne was sprinkling.... Phelps caught up!  Adrian stretches the lead!, still sprinkling... US wins gold!, sprinkling... post-race interview, Phelps earns his 18th career gold medal!, sprinkling.  And sprinkling... and sprinkling. 

But at the end of the night, Wayne was the one who had the last laugh, because his cookies were AMAZING!  They were crispy on the outside and chewy throughout, and they were humongous!  "Man cookies", Wayne calls them.  And I have to admit that these boy--er, man cookies were better than many girl cookies I've had.  So I happily eat my words, along with a mouthful of cookie goodness. 

Good job, Sweetheart!  So proud of you!

 

Wayne studies the recipe before proceeding.

 

Wayne's meticulously shaken-out egg white and creatively, if oddly, placed egg yolk.

 

still sprinkling...

 

Man Cookies!

 

And man, they're delicious!

His & Hers

His.  Programming and playing "Civ 5" while watching a "Deadliest Warriors" marathon.

Hers.  Scrapbooking while watching "Grey's Anatomy."  And crying.  Yes, crying... over a dying mother who has to say her goodbyes to her teenage daughter. 

Further evidence that men and women really are from different planets.

A Happy Three Years

Nothing like a backyard campout to celebrate!

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart!

thunder thighs

oh, my goodness.  I just measured the circumference of my right thigh and compared it to Wayne's.  Mine is an inch bigger than his!  0_0

boys will be boys

Oh, my goodness. My husband is such a boy.

I'm washing the towels right now, so there were none in the bathrooms for a little bit. I just went to our linen closet to pull out some fresh towels and was really puzzled that one of them was slightly damp. Was it from Sam, who slept over last night, needing a new towel in the morning? No, it would have dried by now... Do we have some sort of a leak? Confused, I went over to Wayne and told him about this mystery towel, and he said so casually, "Oh, that was me." Apparently, after using the bathroom and washing his hands, he had no towel to wipe his hands on, so he went into the linen closet and instead of pulling out a new towel to restock, he simply stuck his hands in there, wiped them dry, then closed the closet door again!

It's such a funny scene in my head; I can't stop laughing!

our wedding album!

Our wedding album arrived today!!!!!! And I'm so happy with how it turned out! It definitely would have been done sooner had I not been so picky about the pictures and layout and required three rounds of edits! But our photographer, Serena Choi of Serena Grace Photo, is SUPER! ... super talented, super sweet, and super patient, and was so gracious with me through the whole process. We definitely recommend her! :)

Our beautiful leather album comes with a fun album sleeve! AND as an added surprise, Serena included a fun apron for me, as a "happy baking" gift. :) sooo thoughtful! I used it tonight (and already got it dirty--darn!)

THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING, SERENA!!!

(ooh! I just went to Serena's website, and in her gallery, we are "Wedding Three"!!!)

Mouse in the House!!!

I just screamed bloody murder after I scooped up a mouse along with Lucy's kibble for dinner!!! Wayne is now trying to capture it with an empty yogurt container (a large one, of course)... because I want to set it free in the fields. ... But I am in the living room, blogging, because I do not want to go near it. Strange how I am fine with PET mice, but wild mice... eeek! I know it's a learned response, because, really, he's quite cute.

Okay, Wayne has captured the food thief, and is taking him away. I hope he doesn't come back (the mouse, that is...not Wayne!) Yay, Wayne! He's my hero!

Pie Mr. To!

Last week, Mr. To got pied as part of a fundraiser at school! How could I not share these pictures?

Before:


During (love the protective gear):


After:


Wayne said he had whipped cream smell up his nose the rest of the day. Haha, what a good sport!

biore

I found some old biore strips as I was clearing out my bathroom, so Wayne (after a little cajoling) and I applied a couple to our noses. And just like the commercials, we peeled off the strips after ten minutes and marveled at each other's strips. Except, mine was almost clean and Wayne's was FILTHY! Little dark flecks dotted the entire strip! I couldn't stop looking at it! And if I remember correctly, Wayne's nose was just as dirty last time Stef and I made him biore with us our Freshman year of college. I think it's time I recommend a good facewash for my grubby hubby.

A Year and a Day

Wayne and I have been married now a year and a day. And in this year and a day, I've learned many things. First, I've learned that Wayne likes to wrap himself in blankets like a burrito when he sleeps, and through the night, he'll slowly reel the blankets off of me to achieve desired burrito state. I've also learned that being married to Mr. To is somewhat like being married to a small town celebrity; seldom can we venture into Elk Grove without being spotted and hounded for autographs (okay, not really about the autographs)... and I predict that these occurrences will only increase when we move into our new house closer to his school. But I think the most impactful lesson I've learned, and am continually learning, is how to operate with and under grace. Sometimes, the smallest things, like a musty sponge, can really ruffle my feathers. But it's when I'm being a prickly porcupine and Wayne braves my quills and embraces me still, I am compelled to lower my defenses and act in love in return. It continually amazes me how God designed marriage to remind us of His love and grace for us.

Yesterday we celebrated out first anniversary by going to this huge flea market/farmer's market up in Roseville (where I got this AMAZING papaya, among other items), and then Wayne took me to lunch at La Provence. We spent the rest of the day working on our house (which is slowly coming along). I have the best time doing the biggest and smallest things with Wayne, and yesterday was perfect! For no rhyme or reason we work... I still don't know HOW we work, because on paper we are so different, but we do, so beautifully. And by God's grace, I look forward to many more years and a day of living, loving, playing, and growing.

Happy anniversary, Sweetheart!


This is us at the farmer's market!

I see ya at IKEA!

We went to IKEA the other day and ran into Matt Chin. Doesn't that look like him on the right? Okay, kind of, right? At least a little bit? Anyway, I thought it was pretty good...

...until I saw this!

Does Wayne have an alter IKEA family that I don't know about??

I am 27 going on 28!

or... I guess I'm already 28, as of today. 28--yikes!

I had such a great day! I had 10 hours of sleep last night! (slept at 8pm... don't know why I was SO tired... probably recovering from the super fun weekend from Jenny's visit!) I woke up and found notes all over the house from Wayne and "Lucy" :)... then went on a run with Lucy. Emily and I spent 4.5 hours at Nordstrom Rack! Then Wayne took me to dinner at Scott's Seafood. The food was nothing to write home about, but the company was great!... including the old couple who were seated next to us. I couldn't help listening in on their conversation; it sounded like they were on a first date, and it was so cute! They talked about the war and strokes and The Sound of Music. I had to peel myself away from listening more! And to top off our evening, we got REALLY good jalapeno cheddar bread and pugliese bread from this bread store next to Scott's. It's called Grateful Bread, haha!

Thanks, everyone, for your birthday wishes!! :)

a lesson in love

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed the other day, and my morning just seemed to follow suit. Allergies were killing me, dirty dishes were in the sink, Lucy kept stealing things, and I dropped Wayne's breakfast down the dishwasher. You know, one of those mornings. So instead of my usual bright-eyed bushy-tailed self, I was snippy and surly with Wayne in the morning. Nothing horrible, nothing you might even be able to specifically call me out on, but there was a definite overall unlovingness and meanness to me that morning.

I did feel badly, though, and so after he left, I wrote Wayne a quick email to apologize for taking out my rough morning on him, and then went to work.

When I returned and opened the door, I was met by this!



Wayne had bought all sorts of fruits (my favorite!), artfully arranged them, and attached little notes to each one that said things like, "If a bad morning brings lemons, let's make lemonade!" "Orange I glad you're home..." "...because you're the apple of my eye!" "Let's make like this mango, and let's tango!"

I was thoroughly touched and humbled at the same time. While Wayne could have confronted me, gotten upset, or returned my snippiness, which is what I might have done, he instead showered me with kindness, love, forgiveness, and grace. Sure teaches me a lesson... what a neat guy, huh? :)

p.s. He also did lots of yardwork while I was gone. Extra brownie points!!!

Subbing for Mr. To

Yesterday, I got to sub for Wayne as he took the day to attend a teaching conference. It was definitely a fun experience!

I remember in junior high and high school, being so weirded out, yet fascinated when I saw my teachers' husbands or wives and got to catch a glimpse of their lives outside of the classroom... you mean teachers don't live at school? And I think that's what it must have been like for Wayne's students. His kids were all so excited to meet me; I definitely had no problem commanding their attentions or respect (although I did have to confiscate a cell phone). And they had looks of awe--awe!--as I went over the day's agenda and did normal substitute teacher things, haha. At the end of his last period, they insisted on asking me questions about Mr. To, so we had a short Q&A. Apparently, there was some rumor going around that Mr. To has a dog tattoo on his back (?!), and they wanted to get the real story from me, haha... so I spun them a tale about a college TJ trip gone wrong. I know, I'm bad, huh? I also told them the history of Mr. To's hair (how's it's pretty much been the same since elementary school except for a period of long bangs in high school and then a odd-looking buzz-ish cut our second year in college)... and they wanted to know about our first date (... I seriously don't remember, so I told them a little about the blanket at the beach story).

Wayne said his students liked having me as their sub, and one student (the one that I confiscated the cell phone from) said, "Dude, Mr. To, you've got game!" (... like Scrabble?)

Now they want to meet the baby, so I'm bringing Lucy in after school on Friday. :)

lost

Wayne lost his wedding band last night somewhere between puppy class, Circuit City, and home. He's bummed, but it's not his fault. It was slightly too big for him, and the winter cold that shrinks the blood vessels in his fingers didn't help. He's accidentally flung it off on a few occasions, but he's usually cognizant of its absence and proceeds to retrieve it. This time, though, I guess it just slipped off and he didn't know. He's notified the managers at both PetSmart and Circuit City, and we'll wait a week before purchasing a new one.

Secretly, or maybe not so secretly, I'm not too upset, because 1. his ring was an inexpensive tungsten band that we purchased on amazon, and 2. now we can find one that fits better--size-wise and style!

Officially Mrs. To

So I finally went to get my name changed today. At first, my delay was for practical reasons. We were traveling and I needed my driver's license to match my plane ticket, and then I had to re-register for voting and, again, needed my ID... and then... I just sort of dilly-dallied because after 27 years, I've kind of grown attached to my name.

But I knew what I would eventually have to do, so armed with every piece of identification and documentation in my previous name, I made my way to the Social Security office today. Even then, it was a struggle as I handed over my stack of papers. As she typed in my information, I scrambled for maybe some way I could preserve "Li"... maybe alter my middle name. Or maybe a hyphenated last name? I actually had to fight from crying, lest the Social Security lady think I was crazy (which I probably am... I mean, people do this all the time!).

In the end, I left my middle name in tact and left out the hyphenation. I am officially Cecilia To. Or... ceciLIa To. (or Ceci Li—a To. neat, huh? cheesy, but it helps with the transition...)

proud to have served his civic duty.

notice the election-day appropriate outfit he chose himself, and the sample ballot tucked under his arm. :)

(oh, and also notice our new orange door in the background!)