The other day, when it was hotter than hell’s kitchen outside, I stood under a tree in the backyard and pelted the kids with the hose – something they thought was smashing good fun. I brought them inside afterward, dried them off and changed them, but it wasn’t until we were eating dinner that I noticed Julia still had her watch on and by the looks of it, she’d been wearing it when the smashing good fun took place earlier.

Now, when I say ‘watch’ I mean a plastic $3.99 Dora special that read 10:27 no matter what time of day it was, but she loved that thing and wore it pretty frequently. When I gently pointed out that it no longer said 10:27 and that the face was completely waterlogged, she was pretty bummed out.

After a conversation about why watches and water don’t mix I took her up to our room and sat beside her on my bed, my jewelry box in my lap. I pulled out the first watch I’d ever owned, the Timex watch with the blue strap that my grandparents gave me when I was right around Julia’s age, the watch I learned how to tell time on. I relayed its history to her as I put it around her wrist and told her that if she was very careful with it, she could wear it.

To say she was thrilled would be an understatement. It hasn’t come off since.

Fast forward to this morning: I was on the phone with an old friend of mine from high school and had been for about fifteen minutes, long enough for Oliver to get restless and start dismantling the house. Knowing I had to change his scenery immediately to avoid further damage, I started to wrap things up with my girlfriend when I heard a ‘pop’ from the living room, followed by an “Ow!” and footsteps pounding into the kitchen.

“Oliver just hitted me!” Julia announced from the doorway, frowning at me.

“Did you tell Oliver you don’t like him hitting you and that you want him to stop?” I asked her.

“No,” she said.

“Well, go back in there, girl. Tell Oliver what time it is!” I said triumphantly.

As soon as I said it I realized what I’d just said to her and watched as she marched up to Oliver (who had flipped an end table over and was busy riding it like a horsie), looked down at her wrist and shouted, “Oliver! It’s TWELVE THIRTY!”

54 Comments | In: life with julia | | #

Saturday morning. We’re in the van, driving around scoping out garage sales*, when out of nowhere Dave says, “Hey, do you remember that time I said something to you and it was really funny, but you got kinda pissed off?” He cocked his head to the left a bit, furrowed his brow and proceeded to get lost in thought. “What did I say?” he muttered to himself.

I stared at the bumper in front of us and thought about the things Dave has said to me that he thought absolutely hilarious – things that I, at the given moment, didn't see the hilarity in:

The time when our relationship was of the long distance variety, the only thing connecting us being Ma Bell (and, of course, Teh Internet), and as we were saying our goodbyes he said huskily into the receiver, “I love you, Karen.” (For those of you who don’t know, my name is not, nor has it ever been, Karen.)

The time he called me sweatheart.

The time he rationalized his having the bigger cut of steak because, and I quote, “I’m a man, babe.”

And how could I forget the time he attempted to call me ‘baby’ but wound up calling me 'beefy' instead? 

“Was it that time you called me beefy?” I asked, giggling.

“Yes!” He started to laugh. “Do you remember that?”

“For sure,” I said. “'What’s up, beefy?' That’s hard to forget.”

Reason #3,863 why I love my husband: he cracks my shit up.

*Speaking of spending Saturday mornings rooting through other people's junk looking for treasures, I just finished reading Garage Sale America for The Parentblogger's Network. Take a peek, especially if, like me, you consider yourself to be somewhat of an incurable collector.

35 Comments | In: life with dave | | #

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