On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, we remember.

In the UK, they wear poppies to remember.  And today, in the UK, 1 million poppies were dropped over the decks of the QE2.

Remember a vet today — remember a ship — just remember.

There are so many things I hate about you.  Case in point is that at this point you are already rolling your eyes and saying something snide about how this is no way to beging a love note, or something about having seen that Julia Stiles movie more times than should be allowed by a woman my age.  Seriously, stop it — I have a point here somewhere, if only I could find it.

Oh, yes, I was mentioning that I hate you.  I think last year about this time I was threatening your life, so I think we ought to consider my hate for you a step in the right direction.  Well, as long as you think hate is a good emotion for two people who live under the same roof.  Nevermind.  Back to that point I alluded to earlier.

I hate that you leave your socks in a pile, no where near the laundry bin.  I also hate that this charming trait seems to be passing on to your son, who while he can track down his hamper for 90% of his clothes has the habit of leaving his socks exactly where he takes them off.

I hate that you are so completely male that you can not seem to be moved by even the sappiest of movies.  I am thrown how you can roll your eyes at the improbableness of the average romantic comedy.  I also hate how you are not capable of suspending your disbelief when it comes to any movie or TV show set in a town that you have lived or regards a subject you know actual facts about.  I scream that you suck the fun out of movie and there are few truer words.  (If anyone out there needs a fine example, at the end of the movie The Guardian, I have no idea what happened as Ashton Kutcher walks down the hall to the classroom because Prince had to examine the uniform — which is ALL wrong, doesn’t exist, and is *SO* over the top bad, I was able to point out the whole lack of pockets all on my own.)

I hate how you completely ignore what I tell you that I need most at that very moment, like a beer/dessert/a clean kitchen, and give me what I really need most, a hug or better permission to go close the door in our room for a bit.  While I’m on this one, I hate that you seem to know when I’m completely at the end of my rope and can not handle one more thing and you sweep in and fix it.  I hate how you relish in my sputering as I had wound myself up into a reaction that doesn’t fit with your action — more likely than not, that I was expecting you to be a jerk and you were sweet.

I hate how completely pesimestic you are.  I said it this past weekend, but you have this horrible knack of having 1,000 good experiences can be colored by one bad one.  The dog hasn’t thrown up in the car for years, and yet you worry about it every time we go out with him.  Yet, I find it funny how you will stress over Duke’s and my comfort on twisty roads — hardly getting mad when I keep screaming that you are surely going to run into that rock over there.  I also hate how mad it makes you that I use that passenger side brake pedal every time I think we come up behind a car too fast.  (And yes, I realize that I’m in the only driver in our house that has had an accident.)

Finally, I hate that even after nine years with you, I don’t have you figured out yet.  I hate that I’m pretty sure you have me figured out, thus I rarely throw you a curve ball, but you do it to me all the time.  I’m certain that just as I think I have you figured out, you change just to keep me guessing.  And this is something you delight in.

There are thousands of ways we are different, opposites in so many things.  We both hate things about each other.  Hate things that we’ve long accepted as the way things are and moved along.  While I’d love it if you weren’t so cynical, literal, and maybe had fewer socks; I know that you wish I wasn’t so uptight, learn to keep my mouth shut, and perhaps washed your shirts weekly.

So, there you have it.  I hate things about you.  So many things frustrate and upset me.  But then you do something amazing and make me realize I don’t hate you, I love you.  You smile that odd little grin like you know some secret that I don’t.  You worry about me being happy and when I’m upset you never try to just pat me on the head and placate me, because you know I’d hate that it wasn’t geniune.  And you love me.

I put aside all the little things that I hate about you.  I put that aside and I chose to love you.  I chose to love the unlovable parts of you, the parts of you that are rough around the edges and not perfect.  I chose to spend my life with someone who can hurt me with a word, but would bite his own tongue off if he knew that would protect me from pain.  I love that you are s snarky as me and that you laugh.  But more than anything, I love that you love me too — even with my rough edges and the things you hate about me.

Here’s to 9 more years of loving and hating,

Your Wife.

Stories that made us giggle about his birthday:

Duke, upon hearing it was Daddy’s birthday, broke out in song:

Happy Birthday, Father.

Happy Birthday, Father….

It broke off at this point because both ‘Father’ and I were laughing too hard.  Duke looked up and was shocked and said, “what?”

Next, Duke has gotten the bug that Daddy is having a birthday.  (Keep in mind that Prince isn’t like me when it comes to a birthday.  Prince is just fine with the quiet acknowledgment, a card, maybe a trip to Best Buy….nothing huge.)  Duke declared at dinner last night:

We need to make a cake!  And get Party hats!  And Streamers! Can I have friends over?

Prince rolled his eyes.

Duke is happy that Daddy agreed to a cake, though not the cake Duke wants, but Prince is getting his far and away favorite cake.  Duke is going to need it, since the marshmallow  supply ran out last night and I’m not quite ready to make marshmallow making a weekly event in my house.  However, I do want to try shapes; perhaps dusting them in cocoa instead of powdered sugar (or a blend even); flavoring them; and oh, yes, I totally see homemade peeps in my Easter future. (I’m obsessed.)

So, for my part of his birthday fun, I have done the following (all truly exceptional wife like things):

• Declared that Prince could pick out his breakfast for his day, and promptly (upon much whining from a little one who was HUNGRY before Daddy was up) made whatever I felt like.
• Put off making or buying a card, until the point that I was BUSTED making it at the table when Prince finally got out of bed.
• Kept him up past midnight because I was convinced that I could solve a computer networking problem (with the help of the network guru, Google), for which I’m wholely unqualified to help.
• Got mad at him for his inability to explain to me what the networking problem was in a way that I both understood and then could act upon.  (See point above where I’m NOT qualified — but I stayed in a Holiday Inn Express last night)
• Let him take a nap yesterday afternoon (yes, not teachincally on his birthday, but heck, I’m claiming ONE nice thing) but requiring that he fold the laundry first — then at midnight, I proceeded to get mad when I found out he’d piled the laundry on my side of the bed.
• The last thing Prince will remember as he was falling asleep was my anger over him adjusting the sheet causing my Sudoku puzzle (one puzzle is giving me FITS) to be pulled from my grasp.  I believe I took my revenge by making sure my ice like toes were touched to a bare lower back.  (Now that is love, I tell you.)

So you see, so sappy sentiment here.  That just wouldn’t be like us. So, here’s my birthday wish for my husband, friend, and fiercest competitor:

Happy Birthday, Dude.  May you have a few more in which I can kick your butt, put my cold toes on you, and have an excuse to make lots of cakes (and marshmallows).  And yes, in case you were wondering, your birthday is all about me — problem?

(See you for date night later — I must make a cake now.)

So, I buy him this VERY sweet card. It was cavity inducing.

Then this conversation ensues:

Me: Happy 8th. I’m SO happy that we are past our 7th year.

Him: Why?

Me: 7 was a hard year. It was the closest I’ve ever gotten to feeding you rat poison.

Him: Oh how sweet, you were thinking of poisoning me?

Me: Well, only a little and only for short periods of time.  It isn’t like I planned it and purchased rat poison or anything.  YET. (I say with that warning face.)

Him: Could you get me a cup of coffee, without the rat poison, please.

In case you were wondering, there is no amount of explaining that you were NOT planning on poisoning your husband — but making a joke.

(And in case anyone was curious, we don’t OWN any rat poison. Nope, none.  Yes, I checked.)

***

GOOD STUFF: Yesterday afternoon, I headed off to pick up some things for a goody bag for the Sea Socks cruise.  I got to the warehouse, asked for the approiate person, waited — briefly thought about running into the warehouse and rolling around in a little yarn — and then I was walked back to an office FILLED with stuff.  Ok, deep breaths.  As we talked for a few minutes, my buddy turns and says, “Ok, this is what we pulled for you….”  I could not hear anything past “75 balls of yarn and…and…and…”  For a second I was thrilled I had not brought the MINI, but still, I drove off with a TRUNK full of stuff for the cruise.

REALIZATION: I am officially out of room in my office to store said stuff.  It will either be living in my living room or will boot the MINI out of the garage.  This pales in comparison to the realization that I must build 75 goody bags PRONTO and room to spread out to do this is at a premium.

***

GOOD STUFF: I went to a reception last night.  It was nice and I even knew a whole TWO women there.  I stuck to them like glue, so perhaps they might not be speaking to me anymore.  But I’m shy (as we have discussed many, many times before) and I’m uncomfortable in a room of women I don’t know — and let’s leave alone that I can’t seem to come up any good topics to discuss — because apparently my go to topics of cat puke, knitting, and ‘why I’m not bright’ aren’t always socially acceptable.  It tends to make people back away slowly.

REALIZATION: I loved the food at this reception.  There were good offerings, including a chocolate mousse on a thin cookie that I’m MUST get the recipe for and I will bug the heck out of one of the chefs until he bends to my will and coughs it up (yes, it is worth it — it does help that Duke is totally sweet on his daughter though).  But, should I go to one of these receptions again, I’m totally packing my swiss army fork with me.  There were little plates, napkins, even free flowing wines, but not a FORK in sight.  Never in my shortish life have I considered marinaded asparagus a finger food.  I may pack my own tongs.

***

This morning, I was going to take Duke to school, because Prince needed to get in early to claim a parking spot.  Duke was in a really good mood this morning and when I told him, “Hey, do you know what today is?”

He grins and says, “Tuesday Waffle Wednesday!”

“Yes, sweetie, TODAY is Waffle Wednesday.”

Duke and I walked out the door just as Prince was backing out of the drive.  Duke was VERY upset that Daddy was “getting away” (yes, he said that).

“Follow, Daddy, follow, Daddy.”

I said, “Duke, honey, let’s hop in the car right now and Mama can catch up with Daddy.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, honey, I know how Daddy drives, we will catch up.”

” OK, Daddy turned right HERE…. Daddy stopped here…Daddy turned here…where’d Daddy go?”
(There was much glee when I pulled up behind Daddy at a stop light!)

Finally, it came time for Daddy to turn off and us to go straight.  I told Duke, “Say bye to Daddy.”

“Bye-bye, Daddy.  See you later, Alligator.”

Realization: My boy is growing up and things don’t change much at all.