In an interview about her long and happy marriage to legendary preacher Billy Graham, Ruth Graham was asked if Billy had ever made her mad enough to consider divorce. She replied, “Divorce? No. Murder….”

I figure The Hubby, being a huge fan of Rev. Graham, might get a kick out of that quote. I hope so, anyway, because I’m afraid I might have hurt his feelings in one of my blog posts (BTW–when I said that I kept the whole if-he’d-waited-five-minutes-for-the-traffic-to-clear-he-wouldn’ta-had-to-wake-me-up thing to myself…well, according to him, not-so-much).

Let me say, for the record, that The Hubby deserves a medal for putting up with me. He prefers anonymity, and I’m not always so invisible. He is perfectly happy to have nothing in particular going on, and when things start moving a little slow I somehow find ways to get into trouble. When one of my infamous “great ideas” sent us skidding to the brink of bankruptcy, The Hubby held me as I cried on his big, strong shoulder and told me “we’re in this together.”

Yes, if this man were any more perfect, he’d realize he was much too good for me. So when I point out the little foibles of daily husbandry (not to be confused with animal husbandry, which is a totally different thing), it isn’t to detract from his character. It’s more to illustrate that two people are going to clash: they are going to see things differently, trip over each other’s toes. They are going to do things that completely defy what the other perceives as logic and sense. And that’s okay. That’s what keeps it interesting. And I’m all about interesting.

So, when I closed my last post, I had just been informed that we would be going over to Tia Sandra’s house for another big family get-together the next day. Gus’ Tia Sandra (who happens to be my age) is one of my favorite people in the world. She’s one of those absolutely beautiful women who also happen to be gracious and sweet and genuinely nice. Despite the fact that she doesn’t speak English and I don’t understand Spanish (clarification: I speak decent Spanish. However, I cannot understand it. At all.) we’ve still managed to forge a friendship. And she has two wonderful boys (who do speak English), one of whom always brings his guitar and plays Beatles’ tunes for me, so it’s always a treat to get to see them.

But Mason-chasin’ at someone else’s house is exhausting. It will be every bit as physically draining as the reunion, but with the added mental toll of keeping him from unpotting houseplants and testing the bouncibility of various knick-knacks.

After several hours of saying “no-no-don’t,” The Hubby (who would willingly take over the Mason-chasin’, but he hasn’t seen most of these people in thirty years) finally comes to tell me that we can leave. I gather our stuff and make the rounds, hugging all the relatives goodbye with the squirming, wriggling 4 year-old on my hip. I’m pretty sure I’ve made the complete circuit when Gus makes his way to my side. I hand the baby to him, and he smiles. Not an I-love-you-thank-you-you’re-the-best-wife-in-the-world smile. More of a you-are-so-not-gonna-like-this smile.

And he’s not taking the baby.

“The guys need me to play quarterback.”

They need you? Really? The early Americans needed George Washington. Johnny Carson needed Ed McMahon. Timmy needed Lassie (or a decent contractor to come fill in those pesky wells). But I’ve known this man 23 years. I could make you a long list of his good points, his talents, all those attributes that make me the luckiest woman in the world.

Quarterback wouldn’t be on the list.

By this time Mason is beyond overstimulated and way past overtired. He’s only interested in moving and creating havoc. He is meeting my efforts to hold him with extreme resistance, in the form of thrashing and screaming, and I am sure the entire family thinks I am the worst mother in the world.

During a huddle, I make my way around to the side of the house, away from the crowd. There’s a wooden swing tucked away there, and isolated from the noise and motion Mason settles down and snuggles up close to me. We swing, and once in a while a breeze will come through, prompting the angel in my arms to say, “Mommy, wind….” I stroke his hair and kiss his head. I hum a lullaby, and he asks me to sing. This is bliss, the poetry of life.

And then BLAM! The world goes black for a moment, and when the lights come back up there are two men I recognize–a cousin and a cousin-in-law–asking if I’m all right. One of them picks up the football, which has come to a rest several feet away from the swing. I assure them that I’m okay–although I have a hard time hearing my own words over the racket of the birds circling my head. “It was your husband!” They tell me. “He threw it!” Mad quarterback skills, I’m telling ya’….

They go back around the house, and I finally let the tears spill over my bottom eyelid. Mason is rattled. My head really hurts, and I’m having a hard time holding him now that he’s getting squirmy again. If I can just keep it together until Gus comes to check on me. He’ll hold Mason just for a minute while I gather my–

“HUT! HUT!”

Hut? Unless two-below rules are vastly different from regular football, I don’t think “hut” indicates that there will be a time-out while the quarterback goes to check on his injured wife.

I have borne this man four beautiful children–that’s 36 months of pregnancy, 48 hours of hard, pitocin-induced labor, and a cumulative 46 months of breast-feeding (the babies). Not to mention the sleep deficit I’ve incurred as a result–and this is the thanks I get? He hits me in the head with a football and not so much as a “sorry”?

Thirty minutes later he looks over and shoots me a casual “You okay?”

I smile. Not an I-love-you-you’re-the-best-husband-in-the-world smile. More like a I-certainly-hope-you-have-big-plans-for-making-this-up-to-me smile.

“They said you were okay.”

Thumper’s whole “if you can’t say something nice…” line from Bambi never really took root in my etiquette arsenal. So when I don’t respond, The Hubby knows it’s not a good sign.

I don’t know how many options he kicks around before trying again, but he goes with: “It was an accident.”

For the guys reading this, you are about to get–for free–a very valuable piece of advice: “It was an accident” is not the right answer to anything. Ever. Ever infinity.

“You didn’t even come check on me.”

“We were in the middle of the game, and…..”

“I am fairly certain that hitting your wife in the back of the head with a football is grounds for calling a time out!”

More free advice: the right thing to say in this situation is “I’m so sorry, honey. You’re right, I should have checked on you right away. I’m really sorry.” Some women might also require jewelry, but if you’ve chosen your mate wisely a tender embrace will complete the apology sufficiently.

It’s at this point that The Hubby adds, “The game’s almost over–” Almost as in not yet. “–we’re winning.”

Oh, yes. Because I’m completely fine with being hit in the head with a football as long as I get to go home with the star quarterback.

Okay, so that’s sorta true. I mean, he’s really cute. And besides, I figure I can milk this concussion thing for a while. I’m all about the leverage….

Tags: accident, apology, Bambi, Billy Graham, Ed McMahon, football, George Washington, Johnny Carson, Lassie, leverage, Marriage, Mason chasin', quarterback, Ruth Graham, The Hubby, Thumper, Timmy

The morning of the reunion, we sat down to what we came to refer to as Bacon-Day-#3. The whole family crowded around the table, elbow to elbow, laughing and telling stories. My brother-in-law had purchased some barbacoa to contribute to the rise of our cholesterol. Now, to us gringos, “barbacoa” seems self-explanatory. Say it out loud…go on, I’ll wait…. Barbecue, right? Warning: if you like a healthy dose of denial along with your barbacoa, skip ahead to the next paragraph. Sure, barbacoa resembles what a Texan would call BBQ, except for the absence of sauce, in that it is basically a mound of shredded meat. What makes it NOT BBQ is it’s source. It is also called “cabeza.” Spanish 101 coming back to you? Yep, it’s cow head. Or more appropriately, cow face. Cheeks and tongue. Thought you should know that before the next time you order a barbacoa taco.

Now, my brother-in-law (we’re gonna call him BIL for short, because hyphens are hard for me to hit in the dark) is known for his tendency to be a bit…different. My children introduce him to their friends by saying “This is my Uncle Salty. He eats cow eyeballs.” Oh, yes he does. And did. He ordered enough to share. In an exchange that sounded frighteningly like the stoner in an after-school-special enticing the straight kid to just-say-yes (come on, you’ll like it…just try it), the BIL waved the container under The Hubby’s nose. It was at this point that I announced that I wasn’t sure how many toothbrushings would have to take place between eye-ball-eating and wife-kissing, but that it was probably more than twenty.

After filling myself with bacon (because while I will eat things WITH faces, I will not eat an actual face), it was time to get dressed for the reunion. I tried on the same three pairs of jeans nine times, each time berating myself for not starting that diet a few months sooner. I dressed the kids, and we headed out.

The first thing I noticed about the banquet hall was the door handles. Levers. Remember that scene in Jurassic Park, the one where Laura Dern says “Unless they figure out how to open doors,” and next thing you see is a scaly green dino-claw plying the door handle? Well, levers are about as effective at keeping Mason contained as they were the velociraptors. This did not bode well.

Our basic strategy when out and about with Mason is to keep him in his stroller for as long as possible. This lasted through a few introductions, a snack, and a private guitar concert of Beatles’ tunes courtesy of cousin Dave. Then with a banshee-worthy wail, Mason announced that the chaos would now begin. Reluctantly, I freed the velociraptor–I mean, Mason.

What happened next is kind of a blur. There was a lot of running, conversations broken mid-sentence by me saying “Oops–gotta run,” and more running.

Somewhere in the chaos, Ramie realized that she occupied an undesirable void: all the English-speaking kids were a lot older than she was. “That’s okay,” I encouraged her as I ran after Mason. “Your Tia Sandra and I don’t speak the same language, and we’re still good friends.” “But Mom, you’re old.” Thanks, Sweetie….

Now, I really did feel sorry for Ramie. The older kids were all doing their own thing, and the younger kids were truly quite a bit younger. This was no fun for her. She wanted to go home. I know this because she said “This is no fun for me. I want to go home.” And she said it over. And over. And….

So here’s the mental picture: I’m chasing Mason in 5″ heels (me, not him) calling back versions of “soon, honey” over my shoulder to the 5-year old who by now has decided the best strategy is to tackle me by wrapping her body around my legs. By about the hundredth time she whines “When are we leaving?” I give up on saying “soon,” and instead try “Never. It’s all been an evil plot. This is your new home. Have a nice day.” Mason once again crawls out from under that “cognitively disabled” label and takes advantage of my momentary lack of attention to duck into a gap in the crowd and head for the door. Once I discover his escape, I’m off like a geriatric Charlie’s Angel in my 5″ heels, catching up with him just outside the building.

Did I mention that there was no alcohol served at this function?

Ramie finally joins Ethan, Riley, and two cousins outside where Ethan has found an enormous wolf spider and has adopted it as a pet. He has also–for some reason known only to him–managed to hand-tease his moppy hair into an enormous Don King lookin’ nightmare, and is scaring one of the little cousins through the front window. So for now the whining has stopped, but the chasing continues. We do laps around the outside of the building in the July Rio Grande Valley humidity. I keep telling myself that it’s cosmic punishment for consuming bacon three days in a row. Inside they are taking pictures, and everyone notices that we’re gone, but nobody comes to find us. So we keep walking.

Finally, I manage to wrangle Mason back into the A/C so I can grab a bottle of water. The mariachi band has arrived, and Mason is having a blast dancing. I do have to rush after him once to stop him from pulling a concho off a musician’s costume, and afterward he goes back to lifting up his shirt to show his belly while he dances (Mason, not the mariachi).

It’s a good kind of tired when the music stops and the goodbyes start. The Hubby has reconnected with family members he hasn’t seen in thirty years, my kids have spent quality time with the cousins they only see once a year, and I’ve gotten a decent cardio workout. Besides, tomorrow is our “free day”–nothing on the schedule. We can sleep in, celebrate Bacon Day #4, and maybe all my Mason Chasin’ has earned me a little time to head to Starbucks by myself.

What’s that honey? Everyone had so much fun that we’re doing this again tomorrow?

Next up: The added stress of knick-knacks, broken promises, and I’m fairly sure that’s justifiable cause for calling time-out….