I love being a mommy. More specifically, I love being this family’s mommy. These four children are perfect for me, and the daddy that heads us up is amazing. I thank God for them daily, and I know that I could never have done anything to deserve to be so blessed.

But every once in a while–oh, say when the 5 year old is adamant that I help her find the rubber lizard that is now lost because she left it on the entryway table and the 4 year old must have gotten to it and my bright idea of showing her the real live lizard that was hanging out (literally) on the wall in our garage is foiled by the fact that that lizard is now missing too, and the 4 year old (who’s on the naughty list for swiping the rubber lizard) is again boycotting everything on the menu except rice and I can’t sit down and feed him rice because I’m looking for the the stinkin’ lizard, and I haven’t even had a shower today and it’s almost dinner time and I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a shower yesterday either and The Hubby is out battling the evil mutant spawn-of-hell stickers with the riding lawn mower and it’s dinner time and I haven’t even thought about what to make yet and why can’t the 5 year old just play with a rubber dinosaur instead of a lizard–hypothetically speaking, of course….

Anyway, every once in a while, when I sit to take a breath and close my eyes with a cup of tea, a fleeting thought skirts my consciousness like a deer along the edge of a clearing: this isn’t where I was supposed to be.

When I was young and the first seeds that were the lack of my housekeeping skills began to sprout, my mother would stand in my doorway surveying the early manifestation of my chaos and declare: “One of these days, I’m going to sell you to the gypsies!”

I knew she wasn’t serious. Still, something about the prospect excited me. I’d seen gypsies in story books: they wore flowing skirts and scarves in brilliant colors, and the silver bells on their ankles and the golden bracelets on their wrists jangled as they danced along behind their exotic gypsy caravans. And they didn’t have to clean their rooms. Ever. I remember sneaking out of bed and pressing my ear against the curtains to listen for the tinkling of their silver bells, for the creaking of the caravan coming down my street. I didn’t have a plan of action–mine was a happy childhood, I didn’t especially want to run away and leave my family behind. But still, a gypsy’s life….

In high school, I spent a couple of summers in Europe, during which time I fell in love with the Eurail. I spray painted my name on the Berlin Wall under the intimidating eyes of an armed East German soldier, I picnicked in the Swiss Alps, and I practiced my fluent German on Germans who wanted to practice their not-so-fluent English on me. And in an act of idiotic romanticism (or romantic idiocy), I ditched the chaperone and school group and traveled–alone–across Bavaria to stay with the family of a young man I managed to get engaged to during the three days I was in West Berlin.

My name on the Berlin Wall.

Deep within my gypsy spirit, a plan was hatching. After graduation, I’d return to Europe, Eurail pass in hand, on my own. My mother was okay with the idea–in fact, it was really her idea for me to have a “gap year,” and then return for college. But I’d already decided on a different path. Oh sure, I’d come back and go to college. Eventually. Just not right after Europe. First I’d join the Peace Corps and see the rest of the world.

But my gypsy caravan never came.

After my junior year in high school, my dad left. We floundered for a while–this wasn’t supposed to happen to families like us–both emotionally and financially. It became evident that a post-graduation plane ticket to Europe wasn’t in the budget. But it went deeper than that: the girl who spray-painted her name on the Berlin Wall and traveled cross-country by herself was afraid. The divorce had yanked loose my moorings, and things that once felt safe and sure…well, they weren’t any more. The mom who had encouraged me to spread my wings was now struggling to work full time and be a single mother to my 9 year-old sister. I couldn’t leave.

There was another consideration as well: my senior year, I met a cute latino boy with long, dark lashes who made my heart race. The girl who was going off in search of adventure wouldn’t have been available for a long-term relationship. But this girl was more than available for this boy.

And so I enrolled in The University Of Texas, a 3-hour drive away. I spent most of my first semester in tears, wrestling with the guilt of leaving my mom and my sister alone. I finished out the year, and then transferred to a local school where I could live at home and take care of them.

The rest, as they say, is history–OUR history, my family’s and mine. By the time my senior year rolled around, I had enough confidence to return to Austin and receive my BBA from the University of Texas. The Hubby and I were married that September, and have since been blessed with four amazing, beautiful children. We celebrated our 19th anniversary last week, and as we danced on the patio I realized my heart was still racing.

I took the kids to see UP this weekend. The main character is obsessed with the adventure he always wanted and never got to have. In the end, he realizes that a life lived with the people who matter to us is the greatest adventure.

Ramie found her rubber lizard. Mason ate his cheerios. I made dinner. During the meal, all four children erupted into chaos over some perceived affront that nobody will remember tomorrow, and as I intervened I managed to dip my sleeve into a hollowed out watermelon, staining my shirt pink. In that instant, the fleeting thought entered my mind that this was not where I was supposed to be…

…I was supposed to be at the PTO meeting 35 minutes ago.

Tags: adventure, anniversary, Berlin Wall, caravan, children, daddy, divorce, Eurail, Europe, family, gap year, German, Germany, gypsies, lizard, mommy, Peace Corps, PTO, University of Texas, UP

On my very first post (About the chaos), I said that this blog would not improve your life. Except for the free tidbit about using a blowdryer to defog your bathroom mirror, I think I’ve done a pretty admirable job of following through on that promise.

But as I prepare to celebrate 19 years of wedded bliss, I’m feeling the urge to impart some marital wisdom, so I hereby revoke the aforementioned commitment to irrelevance in favor of invoking something relevant about commitment.

You might be wondering about my qualifications at this point. I mean, lots of couples end up being married a long time, but nobody’s searching Amazon for Archie Bunker’s Relationship Guide. Let me just say that we have had our ups and downs, we have weathered near-bankruptcy, the birth of a special needs child, and the shoulder-to-shoulder building of a house, and we are more madly in love today than ever. I’m talkin’ toe-curling, make-me-blush, knock-the-world-off-its-axis love.

For the most part, I think having that kind of relationship is a choice. Sure, there are lots of people whose Prince (or Princess) Charming turned out to be a bona fide toad. Not a cute little croaking frog, but a nasty, poison-oozing, get-that-thing-off-my-back-porch toad. But most of the time, I think it’s a matter of perspective, of seeing the frog in ourselves and realizing that if this person really was perfect, they’d no doubt be smart enough to realize they were too good for us (I pray The Hubby never figures this out).

So here, in no particular order (because I’m only halfway through my cuppa tea, and since I’m still out of English Breakfast tea I’m drinking white tea, which tastes kinda like wet dog smell mixed with chewing tobacco, and it’s not even hot anymore, more like lukewarm. So there’s no way I’m going to be able to intentionally come up with anything resembling “order.”), are a few of my secrets to a happy marriage.

1. Take it when you can get it. There is nothing sexier to a husband than the sight of his wife washing dishes. Or vacuuming. Or folding laundry. The same man who–when sitting down to the lovingly prepared meal of all his favorite foods that you slaved over half the day–can lick his plate clean, belch, and never register any emotion whatsoever will see you standing over a sink full of dishes, unshowered, hair pulled up in a My Little Pony headband you found under the couch when you were looking for the Baby Einstein DVD that the 3-yr-old was having an absolute meltdown over, up to your elbows in soap suds, and think “I’ve gotta have that woman now.”

If you’re married, you’ve been there. And you’ve probably said the same thing I said for the first 10 years or so of my marriage, some hostile version of “Are you crazy?”

I think it must be tied to the whole predator/prey thing. You know–the predator spies the prey in a vulnerable situation and then pounces, knowing the prey won’t flee and risk dripping dirty dishwater all over the floor.

Here’s my advice: let the predator win. After all, what’s more fun: scraping dried yogurt out of cereal bowls or having someone nibble your neck? And don’t just stiffen up and endure it. Stop the scraping. Relax. And yes, a man’s idea of affection is basically a good grope. If your hubby is attracted enough to you to want to grope you–congratulations! Don’t do anything to make him change his mind. Let him play the victorious tiger rejoicing over the spoils of his hunt for a minute, and then you can say something like “Okay Tiger, the sooner I get these dishes washed, the sooner we can get the kids in bed.”

B. Flirt shamelessly. No, not with the cute barista at Starbucks. He’s half your age, for cryin’ in a bucket! I mean with your hubby. Think back to when you first met, when you were trying to get his attention. Bat your eyelashes, smile winsomely. Let him catch you checkin’ out his butt, and then look away bashfully when he catches you. Or don’t look away–wink at him.

Studies show (don’t ask me which studies. I have 831 messages in my inbox. You honestly think I’m the kind of person who can keep up with where I read something?) that touching a man on the right side of his body crosses the physical/emotional attachment..thing. Basically, when you touch them on the right side, it does more than elicit a physical reaction, it also makes them more caring, loving, etc. Use that to your advantage. Trace your fingertip along the edge of his ear. Play with his hair. Drag your fingernails down his bicep. Oh–and when you do, bite your lip and act all hot. Guys love that stuff.

III. LAUGH. See, I put that in all caps. Must be important. One of the biggest mistakes I made for the first decade or so of our marriage was taking everything–including myself–too seriously. I was obsessed with the notion of acting like a “grown-up,” which evidently meant we weren’t supposed to be having any fun. Or rather, that there was a time for fun and a time for business, and never the twain should meet.

How many times have you read or heard that laughter releases endorphins? It’s true. And laughter is a heck of an aphrodisiac. It’s really good at curing self-consciousness, too. Just make sure you laugh with your spouse and at yourself, not the other way around. And take this attitude with you into the boudoir. I’m not talking about wearing a clown wig and cracking jokes (unless your hubby likes that sorta thing…), but lighten up. Intimacy doesn’t have to be some formal, solemn act. It’s supposed to be fun.

Next post: How am I supposed to get anything done when any sentence starting with the words “Will you” qualifies as nagging? Ah–I have the secret! My very favorite marriage tip ever.

Tags: advice, anniversary, dishes, flirting, laugh, Marriage, Starbucks, touch