Tag Archives: supernatural

Maybe I don’t know everything

Here’s a fun perk about parenting that doesn’t get talked about often. When it comes to little kids, you can usually count on being the smartest person in the room.

Seriously. Children come into this world knowing nothing. Like, nothing. I literally had to explain to my almost 2-year-old what the sky was the other day.

It’s flattering in its own way. Your kids just assume you are the ultimate authority on everything. Which almost, ALMOST, makes up for the endless barrage of questions that pour out of their mouths on a daily basis.

Momma, where do squirrels live?

In trees, honey.

What is ice made of?

Frozen water.

Why do I have to go to sleep?

Because your body needs sleep to grow big and strong. And Momma is super behind on “Supernatural” episodes.

In the morning, answering these questions usually comes as naturally as breathing. In that I can’t stop to think about what I’m doing because then all I’d be doing is answering questions. So I just respond without even thinking about it as I go about my business.  

Are Kermit and Miss Piggy married?

It’s complicated, darling.

Why?

Because Kermit is afraid of commitment.

What’s that sign say?

Don’t walk.

Why are we walking then?

Because that sign is not the boss of me.

How does someone get to become President?

No one knows anymore, baby.

But as the day wears on, I start to stumble a bit. My all-knowing authority starts to show signs of weakness, their never-ending questions poking tiny logic holes everywhere.

Why can’t I watch TV all day, Momma?

Because it’s bad for you.

Why?

Because…sigh...because your brain needs stimulation.

What’s stimulation?

Um…everything that happens when you aren’t watching TV?

Do fish talk?

No, sweetie. Wait…I mean…yeah, no, they don’t. But I’m sure they communicate in some way. They’d have to, right?

And by the end of the day, when the caffeine has worn off and I’m exhausted and some pretty major parts of my brain have been liquified because my kids won’t stop saying “momomomomomomomom,” I begin to question my own grasp of this seemingly basic knowledge I am imparting to them.

Why can’t I say bad words?

Honestly? Mostly because it just reflects poorly on my parenting. Like, it’s cute if a 2-year-old says “damn it” but gets significantly less cute the older you get.

But don’t you say bad words?

I do. And I’m allowed to because…well, um…because I pay taxes. And the day you have to pay taxes, you can say all the bad words you want.

Is “fat” a bad word, Momma?

Oh god, kid. Um, some people think so. Although others don’t, they’re embracing it, reclaiming it, if you will. Technically it’s a descriptive word but in our society it’s been used as a kind of verbal weapon. So really it depends how much power you personally give the word. I guess. Is it your bedtime yet?

What is the coldest season?

Winter.

What is the second coldest season?

Fall. Er…although it could also be spring. Let’s just say they’re tied.

Why is it called fall? Like fall down?

Yeah, because the leaves fall off the trees during that time of year. Although it’s also called autumn.

Why do the leaves fall down? Do they need a bandaid?

Sigh…um, the leaves fall because of…is it to conserve water or something? During the winter? I think. And no they don’t need bandaids. The leaves are dead. OH CRAP, I MEAN…

What’s dead mean, Momma?

WHO WANTS ICE CREAM!?

Will you die someday? Will I? How about Daddy? Where do you go when you die? Is dead like sleeping? Will I die when I go to sleep? Can I sleep in your bed tonight?

And then by the time I’m in bed (trying to ignore the kicking and thrashing of my traumatized children) I’m starting to question everything.

But, I mean, where DO we go when we die? Heaven? Hell? Is it just a vast nothingness? Do animals have souls? Dogs must, if anything. I don’t want to spend eternity somewhere that doesn’t allow dogs in. Why would an all-knowing Creator create dogs and then not let them run around in the afterlife? What kind of cruel joke is that? WHY ARE WE EVEN HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE!? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!? AND DID I REMEMBER TO TURN OFF THE COFFEEMAKER!?

The good news is that after this awful sleepless night I get to wake up, covered in little, tiny bruises, and do it all over again.

Morning, Momma! Why do you drink so much coffee? Can I have some coffee? Is coffee like chocolate? It looks like chocolate. Can I have chocolate for breakfast?

 

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What one word describes you?

A few nights ago, my husband and I were in bed having a grand ol’ time. The baby was finally asleep, the house was clean(ish), all work emails had been returned and all deadlines met(ish). We had a whole luxurious evening all to ourselves devoid of any responsibility.

Which is why, as I’m assuming you’ve already guessed, we were lying side by side in bed taking dumb pop culture quizzes on our phones.

“Hey, in the ‘Which ‘Star Wars’ character are you?’ quiz, I got Han,” I proudly announced.

“I got C-3PO. That can’t be right. I’m taking it again,” he replied.

This, naturally, soon spiraled out of control as these things tend to do and we found ourselves down the Internet Quiz Rabbit Hole. We found out I’m a Picard and he’s a Kirk. He’s a Jane and I’m a Daria. I’m a Hermione and he’s a Snape. And we are both, in fact, Jim from “The Office” (although one of us may have had to take it four times because she kept getting Dwight).

Eventually we both landed on the “Which ‘Supernatural’ character are you?” quiz. And suddenly, things turned serious. Sure, all those other quizzes were just fun and games. But this was “Supernatural” we were talking about. Our joint all-time favorite show. The show we make sure never to miss. I mean, we own the “Supernatural” version of the board game Clue. I own multiple shirts with the characters’ faces splashed across my bosom. We even have an ongoing joke about how my husband goes on Supernatural forums to discuss the show with other geeks under the handle “MishaLover43” (although I’m 93 percent sure this actually happens despite his protestations to the contrary).

Of course, we both wanted to get Dean. Everyone wants to be Dean. And if you don’t want to be Dean, you’re lying to yourself. Stop it.

Considering what was at stake here and the immense pressure I was under, I got stuck on the question “What one word describes you?” The choices they gave were endless: Dependable. Confident. Lovable. Clever. Etc…

“Hey, what one word describes me? I can’t decide since neither ‘sarcastic’ nor ‘goddess-esque’ is a choice,” I asked Ryan.

“Here, let me see the choices,” he said, taking my phone and scanning it. “Hmm…want me to pick what I think?”

“Yes, please. I’m assuming it’s not cheating since we’ve been together 10 years and you’ve seen me puke naked.”

When he handed me back my phone, there it was, a bright green checkmark beside the one word the person I was closest to in the world thought described me.

Strong.

“You think I’m strong?” I asked, taken back.

“Yeah, I do,” he casually answered before going back to his own quiz.

Strong. It had never even crossed my mind to choose that adjective. Tears actually started brimming my eyes before I sucked them back in less I be caught crying over a stupid Internet quiz.

He thought I was strong.

Correction: He knows I’m strong.

It can be easy as a woman to lose your identity, to only see yourself in relation to others. This is especially true once you become a mother but happens at all of life’s stages.

Nurturing, patient, loving. These were the things I strived to be with my son. As a wife, I strive to be passionate and compassionate. As a friend, I try to be loyal. As a daughter, caring and understanding.

All good traits to have and reach for, even if you fall short of the mark sometimes (and we all do). But too often we only think of ourselves in these sweet, nice categories. Sugar and spice and all that. Because too often society tells us that these are the only categories that matter when you are woman (besides the MOST important category of all: Is she pretty?).

And not often enough do we think of ourselves, of who we really are, outside our relationship to others.

Who am I? Just me? Not as a mom, wife, daughter, sister, employee, neighbor. But as Aprill.

Just Aprill.

I honestly didn’t know that night. Because the bathroom mirror I look into everyday often told me that I was tired. That I was getting fine lines and sprouting random gray hairs. That I shouldn’t have lost my temper when Riker threw his juice at me. That I forgot to call my cousin back AGAIN. That my husband would never want to be intimate with me again if I kept wearing my old pregnancy underwear every time I forgot to do laundry. That my writing had gone stale. That my career was flailing. That I was failing on all fronts.

And so, I want to thank my husband for being my mirror that night and showing me what I had trouble seeing.

I am strong.

And also, apparently, I am Crowley, the King of Hell, according to that dumb quiz.

But that’s a topic for a different blog.

Engagement Story, Part 2: I Should Be Committed

Previously, on Broke Wife, Big City…

Aprill, our protagonist who was pretty in that girl-next-door-who-drinks-a-lot-of-vodka kind of way, was in the midst of revealing her very un-Hollywood-like marriage proposal story (which you can read here) when she had to unexpectedly take a break because her husband made tacos and she was, like, SUPER hungry.

And then she ate too much and there was a “Leverage” marathon on and typing quickly seemed like waaaaaay too much cardio to engage in…and then…well, repeat for five days and here we are.

But now, on with the story…

It all started on a random fall afternoon that we had designated as our “anniversary” since both of us were too lazy to really care what date we actually first met, or first kissed, or first declared our love or first did other things I won’t mention (SEX!!!) because that would be childish and improper.

We were attending a Renaissance Festival (cause we are unapologetically nerd-tastic and love any place where it is acceptable to drink wine and eat turkey legs for breakfast) in Texas with some friends. It was the perfect opportunity. I had been antsy for quite some time for him to put a ring on it and he had been hinting for quite some time that he did indeed like it and intended to put a ring on it. Not to mention, he’s always been a grand gesture kind of guy, so what better place to propose than in front of 30,000 fellow weirdos dressed in loin cloths and barely there fairy costumes, all of whom had started drinking mead at 9 a.m.?

All day I had felt a giddiness. I knew it was coming. I just knew it. So when it didn’t come during the jousting tournament, I didn’t sweat it. When it didn’t come during the performance of the guy who is paid to insult you in Olde English, I, the rancid wench with the questionable virtue, shrugged it off. I wasn’t even too bothered when I had to downplay an escaped squeal and turn it into a cough when my beloved bent down to tie his shoe by the Ye Olde Petting Zoo.

But as dusk descended, my mood, which was already being fueled mostly by Merlot and beer so heavy you had to chew it, started to darken. By the time we got home, it was a black pit of seething drunk girlfriend rage.

Now, men are not necessarily known for their skills of observation. But luckily, the waves of pure anger radiating off my body while we were watching TV on the couch were practically visible even to Ryan’s eyes (the same eyes that have never, EVER managed to see the furry leftovers that smell like hot garbage in August in the fridge).

“Is everything OK, babe?” he asked, while smartly out of hitting range.

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Because you seem mad.”

“Huh.”

“Like, really mad.”

“Hmm…I don’t know, Ryan. What could I, YOUR GIRLFRIEND, and only YOUR GIRLFRIEND, possibly be MAD about?”

“Uhhh…”

…awkward pause…

“Do you want your anniversary gift?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I have to go upstairs to get it.”

“Whatever.”

“OK…? Then I guess I’ll go it…?”

“It’s a free country.”

And that, kids, is how it happened. Just like in a fairy tale, he came downstairs, paused the episode of “Supernatural” that we were watching (well, he was watching and I was blindly staring at while I made a mental list in my head of everything he had ever done wrong in our relationship…which, to be honest, wasn’t much but women have a special skill to turn moments of “you didn’t notice my haircut” into “YOU DON’T THINK I’M PRETTY, DO YOU!?! DO YOU!?!”), got down on one knee and asked “Will you marry me?” while producing a beautiful ring from behind his back.

What followed was a series of “Seriously? Really? You’re not kidding?” followed by 42 tearful yes’s followed by phone calls to every female I knew or had ever known.

But what you didn’t see, and what I didn’t learn until later, was that he had been making plans to propose for years before that actual moment. Each plan more elaborate and “awww…” worthy than the next. For instance, there was the plan to take me on an East Coast road trip in the fall to see the leaves change, where we would stay at a little bed-and-breakfast (which he had already called ahead of time to coordinate his plans with them) and where he would propose in a candle-lit paradise. He had also already called my closest girlfriends to ask permission for my hand. He had schemed with co-workers and mutual friends. He had maps and lists of potential places and estimates of ticket prices to exotic locales.

What he, what we, didn’t ever have was the money or the vacation time to do any of these things.

And just in case I don’t look enough like a selfish, petty person, he actually WAS planning on proposing earlier that day. He had the ring on him the whole time. And when I asked him why he didn’t, he replied:

“Because none of the moments seem perfect enough to propose to the love of my life.”

So, while I may not have a Hollywood-sanctioned, “good” engagement story, I defy anyone who says that I don’t have a beautiful behind-the-scenes engagement story.

And in the end, when you come down to it, a picture-perfect engagement does not a marriage make. But a man who waits three years to propose because nothing seems special enough? I’ll take that man and our “sitting on the couch while Sam and Dean fight demons on the TV” engagement story any day.

Huzzah!