Alikes Attract: or Why I Didn’t Marry an Abercrombie Guy

The last couple of nights I have been devouring a book by Mary Roberts Rinehart called K. Oh, my, it’s good. And it’s in the public domain, so you can get it free online!

Anyway, last night, I couldn’t wait to get back to it. The kids were in bed and I’d just cleaned the kitchen. I jumped into bed and snuggled up with my kindle and started to enjoy.

Just then I was struck by how lucky I am to be married to Steven. You know those metrosexual guys with the pomade hair and creatine-chests who like hanging out with their buddies? There’s no way that someone like me could enjoy being with a guy like that. What would we talk about? How could we be comfortable being together and saying nothing? Steven is the perfect husband for a girl who can’t wait to cuddle up at night with a book that’s 100 years old and 300 pages long (and him). He’s the kind of guy who would (and did) get his own book and cuddle up next to me so we could snuggle up and play footsies while we read. He’d rather go to the symphony with me than go jet skiing with his buddies. When he comes home from work, instead of heading off for the gym, he becomes a jungle gym for our kids. Rather than protein shakes, he eats the homemade falafel pitas and cucumber sauce I made for dinner, and enjoys trying new things. He has a soft, calming voice that sings beautifully and says intelligent, kind, and honest things – never crude, harsh, or demeaning words. He has big, sexy hands that are perfect for playing the piano, writing code, making things with wood, stroking my hair, and unscrewing baby food jars. From this description, you’d think I’d made him up, but he’s real and really mine, and I really like him.

Moral of the story: it’s nice to be married to someone who appreciates the same quiet things. And, you should all read K, especially if you’re related to me.

My Little Girlies

This morning, a friend who has some older girls (who are some of our favorite babysitters) dropped off a bag of toys they'd grown out of: My Little Ponies and Polly Pockets. Immediately, and for hours today, this ensued:

It amazes me that kids don't have to be taught how to play with toys. See how the ponies are lined up? They're playing some kind of school/party/church thing. I hear them upstairs now singing "Happy Birthday" to somebody. (I was deftly evicted from the room as soon as I snapped the picture.)

Some of my fondest memories of growing up are spending hours playing with Barbies and Ponies with Brook and Crystal. We had this green shag carpet that was perfect grass, and the ponies frolicked through hours of storylines that spanned weeks - or maybe a day; time felt different then. Now, of course, I have to rack my brain to come up with bedtime stories (last night, Carmen made it easy by asking for one about when I was a little goat.) Maybe I just need to hold some Ponies in my hand to make the creative juices flow.

In any case, it makes my heart happy to see my girls entering Ponyland.