After what we’ve been through in the past three months I’m convinced that buying and selling a house brings out the worst in people.  Strangers basically pick the lock and wander through your home while you’re not there, judging the size and cleanliness of your closets before criticizing your paint colors.  If that’s not enough, they whine about your lack of counter space while totally overlooking the new carpet you just put in.  Then they put in an insultingly low offer while hiding behind their white-toothed Realtors.  Assholes.

I know this because we have both been these assholes, and been the victims of them.

Greyson and I are always appalled at the snobby things people say on shows like “House Hunters.”  They act like they are somehow entitled to granite countertops and “his and her” sinks just because he works in IT and she’s pregnant with their second child in the suburbs of Cincinnati.  (Yeah, we watch too much HGTV.)

It hurts my heart to think about the negative things people might say when they’re touring my house without me.  Don’t they know this is the house where we set up our first Christmas tree as newlyweds and brought home our rescue dog?  Don’t they realize we ate doughnuts in the yard with our best friends during the neighborhood garage sale?  Hello?!  We lovingly painted that nursery upstairs and our baby rolled over for the first time on the living room rug.  We loved here.  We live here.  This is our home.

And we’re choosing to leave it.  It’s an emotional thing.  So, I’m deciding to be gentler as I wander through others’ rooms in the homes where they loved and lived.

Except for the offers.  I’ll be an asshole hiding behind my Realtor.  It’s a buyers market and I’m counting on vicious white teeth.  (He he, Realtors really do have noticeably white teeth.  Am I right?)

 

Greyson says I’m a total snob about baby names and that I’m judgmental about what people name their kids.  Eh, sue me.

I think I’m justified with this one.  This week I heard someone say they had a friend who knew someone who named their daughter Camry.

Me: “So I heard about this little girl named Camry.”
Greyson: “As in Toyota Camry?”
Me:  “I wonder if she has a twin sister named Corolla?”
Greyson:  “Is she Japanese, or made at a factory here in the US?”
Me:  “I’m not sure, but I heard she’s very reliable and fuel efficient.”

Judgmental, yet hilarious.  We’re here all week, folks.

I’m not writing today as I continue to recover from this God-awful illness I’ve been battling this week.  Tomorrow is my Father-In-Law Woody’s birthday.  Greyson asked for the platform of Somebody’s Parents to give him a present.  I welcome a guest blogger!  Here is the writing of my husband.  Enjoy, and Happy Birthday, Woody!  

 

What do you get the man who has everything for his birthday?

You hijack your wife’s blog and pay homage to the man.  Actually I don’t know anyone who does that, but I’m doing it today.

Without question, one of the things I cherish most is my relationship with my father.  We’ve always had a great relationship, full of humor, advice, deep conversations, and a copious amount of sports.

My father was the best man at my wedding.  When I asked him to be my best man, it caught him off guard….and brought him to tears.  For me, there was never a doubt who I wanted standing next to me as my bride walked down the aisle.  I pictured that moment well before I ever met Amy.

Like I said, we’ve always been close and enjoy a great friendship.  But having little Charlotte has uncovered a new aspect to my relationship with my dad….understanding.

My dad, by any measure, was a wildly successful lawyer.  While he was blessed with immense talent and intellect, his success is really attributed to his drive and passion for hard work.

Most nights did include my dad, briefcase open in front of him, focused on his work.

Don’t get me wrong, my sisters and I were never neglected.  Dad coached my hockey teams, spent hours upon hours helping me with my homework, and was a master of imparting wisdom at just the right times.

But, there was also a lot of work to be done.  Occasionally small talk, or watching the big game, might capture only half of his attention while he plowed through paperwork.

At times it was hard to fully understand why the work was important.  Of course, I knew the money he earned made our lives possible.  But did he really care more about work than spending every possible minute with his kids?

With Charlotte in my life….now, I understand.  As primal as it might sound, I am finding that the desire to provide for my family is the most powerful motivator of all.

I have attacked work with a renewed sense of passion.  It’s easy, when all I have to do is look at the framed pictures on my desk of my wife and child.  I want to make sure that sweet little girl has all of the things I was lucky to have growing up….great family vacations, summer camp, and most of all, a fully paid education.

I work extra hours without any resentment, but rather with a heightened purpose.  We’re looking at new houses, in neighborhoods with great schools, and while it has been an exhausting process, I already feel so fulfilled knowing my hard work is making that possible.  My hard work will allow us to grow our family.  My hard work will allow my kids to follow their dreams, knowing there is a safety I’ve placed underneath them.  My hard work will afford Charlotte the chance to fulfill her potential, and develop into a strong, wise, and sensitive young woman.

My hard work is making me a lot like my dad.

 

This is Charlotte’s pumpkin. She is quite proud of it. She should be considering the epic toddler tantrum we endured to get it home. She says “My punkin!” whenever she sees it and “Bye-bye punkin!” while waving at our front stoop each morning. You can count on her announcing, “My punkin!” once more when we get home. She even showed it to Grandma via Facetime by using it as a chair. I figure if I were 22 lbs. I would think a pumpkin would be a great chair too.

 

As parents we are thrilled that she loved this gourd so much and we were hopeful this would mean she would be interested in some different fall foods this year. Every autumn I make Rachael Ray’s Pumpkin Sausage Pasta. Ya’ll, this stuff is amazeballs! It is perfect for nights when the weather starts getting cooler. Greyson always wanders up to the stove to smell the pot. I can always count on extra kitchen kisses and complements on my cooking. We couldn’t wait to share this recipe with our girl.

 

www.foodnetwork.comI cut up her serving in small bites and gave her a little extra parmesan cheese. She was skeptical when we sat her in the high chair, but she did warm up when she saw that her meal was being served on an Elmo plate. We sat at the table, said the blessing and started eating. We could tell Charlotte would need a little coaxing.

That’s when we said it.

“It’s pumpkin pasta! It’s made with pumpkin! Yummy!”

We might as well have stabbed Elmo right in front of her. Her lip trembled, and she screamed “No! My punkin!”

Oops.

We assured her that her pumpkin was still in tact. Greyson went outside to the front step and brought it in to show her. We may not make jack-o-lanterns this Halloween. I’ll leave the pumpkin out through Thanksgiving, but when Christmas decorations go up it has to go.

Who am I kidding? Any bets on if I’ll have garland around that “punkin?”

This was me today. It was the kind of Tuesday where I answered work emails from my phone as the doctor at Urgent Care told me to “Get over yourself and go home. You’re not going to work today. You’re running a fever.” So I sucked down soup and Airborne with no makeup, glasses, and tissues always in tow. Between naps I watched episodes of “Arrested Development” on Netflix. Laughing at the shenanigans of Gob, Buster, and Tobias made me forget about the body aches and runny nose.

This affliction came to be thanks to my daughter. My poor girl had a double ear infection with a virus on top. She had a fever from Thursday through Sunday. I worry she had it before that and we didn’t notice it.

When my fever from the virus started I felt terrible! This had me wondering. Was she starting to feel bad before we noticed it? Could her tantrums be because she didn’t feel well and couldn’t tell us? We can see when she is lethargic. Like any kid, she cries when she bumps her head or smashes her finger, but what about when she’s starting to feel ill? She can tell me when she has a boo-boo, but it’s not like she can say, “Mama, I feel like I might be coming down with something,” or “Daddy, I think my lymph nodes are swollen and my throat hurts.”

I Googled “When can a child tell you they are sick,” but I didn’t get the answers I was looking for. How old will she be when she can say, “I feel sick”? The mothering instinct has served me well so far, but I’m not gonna lie. It would be really nice for her to tell me when something is wrong.

How did you get your child to tell you something is wrong? When were they able to do that? I figure if I get some advance warning of her sickness, I may be able to keep myself healthier too.