It’s true that when you get married you marry your spouse’s whole family. Upon saying “I do,” you adopt the traditions and eccentricities of another family. In turn, your spouse adopts your family too. You know, the large vacations, messy divorces, awkward portrait sessions and holiday meals divided by generation. Ask my husband about sitting at the “kids table” when he was 30-years-old.

There are things to get used to when joining another family. I for one marveled at Greyson’s family and their ability to debate. Debate anything. Seriously. Led, by a father who is an attorney, they had to rank everything. I would compliment dinner. They would ask me, “What was your favorite part of the meal?”  I would say, “Oh! I liked all of it. It was so delicious!” They would reply, “But, what was your favorite thing?” This would then result in everyone ranking their top three favorite side dishes and someone then vehemently defending why the green bean casserole beat the potatoes hands-down.

Greyson says my family on the other hand takes small-talk to a whole new level with politeness. These conversations are between sips of sweet tea because there is no wine with dinner. What would Jesus think? Or, more accurately, what would my Southern Baptist grandparents think? But, he calls us out on the underlying passive-aggressive tones passing between loved ones. I told him he just doesn’t know how to speak southern. Bless his heart.

I consider myself extremely lucky when it comes to in-laws. For some reason they can look past my faults like excessive chattiness, extreme vanity and Internet obsession and accept me into their family. I’d like you to meet two of Greyson’s family members I’ve never met. These are his grandparents, Herb and Llenie.

Greyson’s grandfather and father are Herbert Haywood. It’s where we got Henry’s name, Henry Haywood. I could recite each family story told to me about these two. Sadly, they each died a few months before Greyson and I met. He jokes that they got together in heaven and decided he needed to find the right girl and they brought us together. Every person in their family speaks of them with such infectious affection that I really feel like I knew them too.  It is a very strange thing to feel so connected to people I never met. They are part of my husband and helped make him the man that he is. When I get to heaven I know they will greet me as if I were one of their own. Add to that, they graciously handed down heirlooms to Greyson. One of which was the beautiful strand of pearls I got to wear when we got married.

We got this in the mail from Greyson’s Aunt Debbie this week.

Herbert Haywood’s ring, passed to Henry Haywood. Greyson said he could remember his grandfather wearing it. I tucked it away in my jewelry chest, thinking about when we would give it to him. At 18? His college graduation? I don’t know. I’m just proud my son will have this heirloom from heaven to be connected to loved ones he’s never met.

This morning I woke up in need. It was one of those Sundays that called for a crispy Belgian brown wonder, dripping with butter and warm syrup. You know, a waffle kind of morning. I rolled over and asked Greyson as sweetly as I could to be taken out for breakfast. Denied. As our tot bounced between us asking for iPhone videos and saying “I’m hungry!” I thought, “Hmm…I can be an amazing mother and get my waffle fix.”

“I’ll cook!” I announced, feet hitting the floor.

As I warmed up the waffle maker and measured out the mix I thought, “Eggs. We need eggs too.” We had some grocery store brand Egg Beater-like carton eggs. Greyson checked the expiration date. October. Score. I found a smaller carton with a  late August expiration. I cooked them up anyway. Mistake. They looked funny. I tossed them. I cooked the October carton. Eh. Still looked a little off but no biggie. October date. We’re good. I was even short cooking spray and the waffles still cooked perfectly and came off the iron evenly. Greyson said to Charlotte, “Isn’t your Mama great!? It was so nice of her to cook breakfast for us.” I thought with great pride, “It is great of me. I am a good mother!” 

Charlotte has been doing this thing lately where she puts food in her mouth, chews and then decides she no longer likes it and wants to spit it out. This happened after she took a bite of the eggs she begged for. Greyson is very perturbed by this quirk and told her, “No! You will swallow what’s in your mouth!” She cried and protested while keeping the half-masticated eggs in her mouth. Greyson said, “Fine! Time out! You will sit in Time Out until you swallow your eggs!” I thought, “Ugh! I hate doing that, but we need to make sure she’s eating what’s on her plate. We need to teach her that. We’re doing right by her as parents.”

Her wimpers subsided and I scooped some eggs on my plate as well. I took a bite. “Oh God! Ugh! Greyson, have you tried these? Charlotte! You can come out of Time-Out. These are bad.” Greyson said, “Oh, Charlotte! Come here, you can spit them out.”

Our bewildered, sniffling child spit her rancid eggs into the napkin I held to her face. She looked at us with tear-filled, confused eyes. Thankfully she seemed only a bit resentful. We apologized profusely and tried to explain when food tastes “funny” or “bad” she can tell us and spit it out.

Now I’m wondering how often anything will taste “funny.” As if punishing himself, Greyson took a bite too, before spitting them out. We bought the name brand carton eggs today, thinking that $1.50 could save us from further parental failures. Okay, I’m not the fantastic waffle-making mother I’d like to be. Sometimes I’m one bad egg in a pair of imperfect parents.

On Father’s Day we had a great time celebrating our favorite guy. We were on the road heading to the Farmer’s Market so Greyson could pick out his favorite veggies and meat to grill. Charlotte loves her Daddy and does what he does. A car pulled out in front of us. He yelled, “What are you doing, douche!?!?”

Sure enough, out of this precious little face we heard the words, “What are you doing, douche!?!?”

Aw! Just like her Daddy.

I’m sitting with my feet up in my new living room with boxes scattered around and my darling husband talking to the TV about NFL draft picks. I’m deliriously tired and deliriously happy.  We almost didn’t get to move in because of idiot underwriters’ contract mistakes and slow bank workers, but we’re here.  This week I’ve felt stretched very thin between demands at work and the demands of moving, but we made it.  I keep looking around in disbelief that we are finally here.

We cried when we left the old house for the last time thinking of all the memories in that house.  It’s funny, just a few days later it feels right to be here. Let the new memories begin…

I recorded this video the night of March 5, the night I found out I was pregnant.  After I took a pregnancy test I ran to the store to buy Charlotte a Big Sister shirt to show daddy  You can see the rest.

I love everything about this video.  I love my husband’s befuddled look, his messy curls and that old Han Solo t-shirt.  I love that he doesn’t act disgusted even though I’m handing him something I just peed on.  He’s the kind of guy you have babies with.