I’m contemplating starting potty training with Jayce.

He’ll be 2-and-a-half on the 14th.

In preparation I purchased my very first package of baby boy boxer briefs.  They are a size 4 and I have to say that even the frilliest lace bottomed girl panties don’t compare with the cuteness factor of these things.

I tried them on my little man and wouldn’t you know he is the spittin’ image of Marky Mark.  Only smaller.  And way cuter.

I’ve been really playing them up to Jayce, telling him that he won’t be able to wear them until he goes peeps on the toidy just like everyone else in the family.

And while I’m at it I diss on the diapers calling them stinky and yucky and ick, ick, ick.

Jayce seems to be diggin’ it.  Of course right now it’s all talk.

So, somehow we got on the subject of potty training at dinner the other night.

Previously Jayce and I had been the only ones present for discussions of peeps related things.

You can imagine then why I was taken aback when Jeff nearly spit his dinner across the table at the mention of Jayce’s big boy panties.

Yes.  You read that right.

Big boy panties.

Apparently I made a cardinal mistake in teaching Jayce the term ‘big boy panties’.

Big boy panties, it seems, do not exist.

Who knew?

Big boys wear underwear.

Or undies.

Boxers is an acceptable term.

As is briefs.

Big boy panties though?

Not so much.

In my defense I’m the mother of three girls.  And just one boy.

I guess I’ve got a thing or two to learn in that department.

Jeff said I should blog about all of the ways in which I am a freak.

What are you talking about?  Give me an example.

I’m not going to deny my freak status.  But I needed something to go on.  General freakishness does not a blog topic make.

Like, how you worry about things.

Like what?  What do I worry about that equates to me being freaky?

Like not putting 200 pounds on the top bunk.

That’s not freaky.  The kids’ bunk beds weren’t made to withhold 200 pounds.  They’re made to withhold, like I dunno 80 or something.  And when I changed the sheets today I had to climb up on the top bunk and I noticed it was way more wobbly than it used to be.

See?

See what?  That’s so not freaky.

Blog about how you freak out when Jayce is choking.

Jayce doesn’t choke anymore.

Blog how you used to freak out when he was choking.

Right, because I’m surely the only mother who freaks out when her infant son is choking.  Uh huh.  That totally proves your point.

Blog about how you don’t want me to take Jayce camping in the desert because you’re afraid he’ll step on a snake.

Hmmm.  My only son camping, primitively mind you, in the desert.  Miles from a hospital.  Surrounded by rattlesnakes on all sides.  Totally a legitimate concern.

It’s not like the rattlesnakes are going to stage a sneak attack.

He might happen upon one.

He won’t.

He might.

Blog about how you always freak out when you get something in your eye.

Who doesn’t?

I don’t.

You’re the freak then.  Eyelashes were meant to protect the eye.  Not swim around inside of it.  I could scratch a cornea that way.  And anyways, I don’t freak out.  I just head directly to a mirror so I can remove the eyelash.

But you won’t let me talk to you while you remove the lash because you say it breaks your concentration.

It does.

You’re proving my point.

You don’t even have a point.

My point is that you’re a freak.

News flash.  Have you not seen the Me and My Spasticity category on my sidebar?  I know I’m a freak.  These things though?  These things have nothing to do with my freakishness.

Okay.

Seriously.  My blog peeps will back me up on this one.  Chocking children and snakebites are legitimate concerns.

And the top bunk collapsing?

Legitimate.

Swimming eyelashes?

You gonna teach me braille when I lose my eyesight?

Yep.  But we won’t start at the letter A.  We’ll start at F.  Then R.  E.  A….

Oh just be quiet.

I’m just sayin’.

Go away and let me blog.

You gonna blog about being a freak?

Actually I thought I’d blog about withholding.  Withholding for a freakishly long time.  How’s that sound sweetie?

(Crickets chirping).

I thought so.

I’m tempted to start this post out with the following sentence: I don’t mean to brag, but…

You all know what that means don’t ya?

Uh-huh.  So let’s just get right to it.

And yes.  I know that being boastful is ungodly.

Forgive me just this once.  The story is worth it.  I hope so anyway.

So we were grocery shopping the other day, and by we I mean Jeff, Jayce and I.  My mom was in the store too, but off picking out area rugs for Kennedy’s new room.  Yes.  We got the rug at the grocery store.  Klassy, I know.  Anyway, back to the boasting.

So we’re crusing the aisles in our normal configuration: Jayce in the cart with Jeff pushing it while I scour the shelves for the lowest prices and check the labels for high fructose corn syrup and whatnot.  So there we were, minding our own business, when one of those grocery guys who sweep the aisles with those obnoxious brooms comes up behind us and sort of interrupts our shopping to ask if we’re finding everything alright.  It was just an odd thing because we had our backs to him, there was no eye contact made, and we weren’t stopped in the aisle looking dumbfounded, rather we were cruisin’ right along at a decent pace.  Anyway, I told him that we were having no trouble locating the thin spaghetti and thanked him for his concern.  Only I wasn’t that sarcastic in real life.

So the grocery kid (and I say kid because he was maybe college age, most likely high school though) sort of leans into Jeff and says something to him that I can’t hear.  Jeff responds with a chuckle, like one of those laughs-for-lack-of-something-better-to-fill-the-silence-with chuckles.  The broom guy continues up the aisle and turns the corner.  I ask Jeff what he said.

He said, “You’re married to her?  Good job man.”

He did not say that.

I swear that is exactly what he said.

No he didn’t.

Swear.

Whatever.

I’m dead serious.  That is exactly what he said.

Why would he say that?  People don’t say that sort of thing.

I know.  But that’s what he said.

And what did you say?

You were right there.  You saw what I said.

I couldn’t hear.  What did you say?

I said thanks.

That’s it?

Yeah, that’s it.

He didn’t really say that.  Why would he say that?  He totally didn’t say that.

Okay.  But yes.  He did.

So now you see why I should have started this post out with the disclaimer that I’m not bragging.

Because really I’m not.  I mean it’s not like Orlando Bloom pulled my husband aside and congratulated him on his catch.  It was the broom kid at the grocery store.

But I’d be lying if I said that little incident didn’t leave me walking a little taller that day.  Because it’s not everyday that someone congratulates my husband for bagging a hottie.

Well.  It’s not.

Later that night, as we were brushing our teeth, I totally spit toothpaste all over my mirror as Jeff was rehashing the story for me.  Only with added commentary this time.

I didn’t know what to say to him really.  Like, dude, what am I?  Chopped liver?  I sort of thought we were equally matched in the looks department.  And now I’m getting ‘good job mans’ from the broom guy at Fry’s?  What’s up with that?  I totally need to start working out.

I think it’s karma really.  Before he was clued in to the nuances of relationships we got married, Jeff once said to me (and notice that I’m adding quotations here), “I mean, you’re no Jennifer Aniston…”.  Let me put it in context for you.  He was explaining to me why a certain ex of mine made a mistake in putting me on a pedestal during our relationship.  As I type it I can barely believe he was idiotic enough to let those words slip from his mouth but, oh, he was.  He most certainly was.  He was not kidding or being sarcastic.  He was dead serious.  And completely clueless I might add.  He’s truly lucky I hung in with him as he fumbled his way to where he is now.

In fact, I’m thinking maybe I’ll start arranging for this sort of thing to spontaneously occur more often.  That oughta really give him a complex.

It’d serve him right, don’t you think?

Jennifer Aniston.  Pfft.  Please.  She’s got nothing on me.  Just ask the broom guy.

Yeah so Jeff was out of town for a business trip again this week.  You may remember how during his past business trips I’ve had issues with the indigenous wildlife.  This week has been no different.

On Wednesday morning during our walk Jayce spotted a snake on the road in front of us.  He pointed at it, saying, “snake, Mommy, snake,” all from the safety of his jogging stroller, surely in an effort to protect his snake-fearin’ Mama don’t you think?   Anyway, upon closer inspection I discovered that it was indeed a snake.  A rattler at that.  A baby one even.  I’ve heard those are the deadliest kind because they are not yet capable of controlling their venom. 

Lovely.

This one in particular wasn’t what I’d call deadly.  He was what I’d call dead.

Just the way I like ‘em.

Moving right along though…

So today I took Torri to an orthodontist appointment.  After returning her to school I was taking the backroads home.  And by backroads I mean dusty, deserted, cacti-infested roads.  Really they could just as easily be referred to as front roads seeing as how they’re the ONLY roads that lead from our rural desert home to the school.  Ah, but I digress.

So I’m driving along doing my best to keep Jayce from falling asleep in the car.  I come to an intersection (if you can call it that) and as I make the turn I watch as a cattish animal crosses the road in front of me.  

I think I can honestly say that since having moved to Arizona four years ago I’ve yet to have a cat cross the road in front of me.  Cats aren’t really outside here much.  I suppose the coyotes keep them at bay.

Anyway, this cat in particular was on the large side.  More like a small dog.  But it wasn’t a dog.  Or a coyote.  I’ve seen my fair share of those too.

When I reached the area of the road where the cattish animal had crossed I stopped the car right there in the middle of the road and peered into the desert.  And wouldn’t you know it was staring right back at me, probably just as curious.

Upon closer inspection I confirmed that it was indeed a cat.  Only not the domesticated kind.  More like the bobcat variety.

So when I got home I googled an image of a baby bobcat.  The pictures I found didn’t look like the cat that had crossed my path.  It’s ears were certainly similar, but not quite right.  And the animal I saw was slightly spotted, not striped.   

Just for kicks I googled an image of a baby mountain lion. 

You know what’s coming don’t you?

Yep.  It was a baby mountain lion.  And that, of course, begs the question: where’s his Mama?

Wherever she is I would rather not make her acquaintance.

And Jeff has always called me crazy when I tell him how I’m scared to go walking in the mornings for fear of being eaten by a mountain lion. 

“There aren’t any mountain lions in our neighborhood.  But you definitely want to be on the lookout because I think the sky is falling.”

Whatever.

And the kids?  The kids find it hilarious that I keep a hammer in the basket of the stroller for just such emergencies.

Who’s crazy now huh?

*Editor’s note: This post is being filed under the “Times I Was Right” category for obvious reasons.

As I approached my 30th birthday I was a mess.  I really can’t say why I was a mess either.  All I can say for sure is that something about the departure of my twenties completely freaked me out.  It may have a had a little something to do with the subtle changes in my slightly less youthful appearance.  And then of course there was also the fact that in spite of me crossing under that thirtysomething threshold, my dear sweet husband was still a safe distance away.  He was 28 in fact.  And I was SO not cool with that.

But today, my friends?  Today is a day for celebration.

Guess who is joining me in the thirtysomething club?

You guessed it.  My love.  My best friend.

And, staying true to character, he is completely unfazed by the passage of his twenties.  He has displayed not an ounce of anxiety.  Not a hint of dismay.  Not a trace of concern.

Some time ago, well before my own milestone birthday, I asked him if turning 30 would be difficult for him.  I know he was 100% honest with me when he told me that it wouldn’t bother him a bit.

Now, if you knew my husband you might think that it wouldn’t faze him because he is the most happy-go-lucky guy around.  There was more to it than that though. 

He told me that as a boy he looked forward to a lot of things.  Many of them had to do with typical guy stuff, but the one that applies to this particular birthday is not your typical guy thing at all.

He actually looked forward to turning thirty because that was when, in his idyllic young mind, he imagined he’d be starting a life.  He’d be newly married.  He’d be settled in a career.  He’d be raising children.  And wouldn’t you know it, here he is, turning thirty and measuring up to every single one of those.

There are so many ways to measure a man.  By the success he’s earned in his career.  By the numbers in his portfolio.  By the car parked in his garage.

None of these measurements, though, truly tell the story of the man behind it all.

The story of the man is told through the eyes of the children he reads to before tucking them in bed at night.  It’s in the way he comes home from a hard day and, instead of retreating to the garage, rolls up his sleeves and pitches in with the homework and the bathing and the dishes.  It’s in the way he takes a deep breath and smiles when his wife asks him for the third time this week to water her plants.  It’s in the way he drives a sedan instead of a manly SUV all because it helps out with the family budget.  It’s in the way he sings “Take me out to the ballgame” to his newborn son because he believes it helps him fall to sleep.  It’s in the way he teaches his daughter, a daughter with whom he shares no blood, to swing the bat and keep her eye on the ball.  It’s in the way he puts air in the tires of the little neighbor girl’s bike because her own dad isn’t around to do it.

It’s in the way he lives and breathes.  It’s in the way he looks at his family.  It’s in the way he loves.

This husband of mine is not an average man.  He’s an uncommon good.  My once in a lifetime.  He’s a man I regard higher than any I’ve ever known. 

He is thirty today.

And I know, with complete certainty, that he is living every bit of the life that that bold young boy dared to dream.  

I’m so thankful that he invited me to play a starring role. 

Happy Birthday baby. 

Whatdya say we tear up these next thirty years together?

Jeff and I wrote our own vows.  It was his idea.  One that I was opposed to at first.  But after giving it some thought I realized he was right.  Nothing about our relationship was standard, so why should our vows be?

Having already been divorced I felt like I had a slight advantage when it came to the vow writing.  Not because I was an expert at keeping them obviously, but because I was very aware of what I wanted to do differently.  Of the things I needed to work harder at.  Of the sacrifices I was willing to make.

I remember sitting up in my bed, pen and paper in hand, and searching my soul for the right words.  Of course I wanted to convey everything I felt for this amazing man who was about to become my husband.  But I also thought it important to assure him that I understood the commitment.   That I had carefully considered every aspect of this new beginning and what it meant to be in it for the long haul.

I try to read over those vows every year about this time.

And every time I realize that I’m not exactly living up to what I said I’d do.

I promised patience and understanding.  Yet, of all the people under this roof, the patience I offer to my husband is far less than that I offer everyone else.

I promised to share the load.  But you’ve all been witness to me complaining about the garbage bag that goes un-replaced after the trash gets taken out for the night.

I promised encouragement.  I have no excuse then as to why it seems so much easier to point out faults than to give praise and appreciation.

I’ve fallen short in so many ways. 

And yet he still treats me like gold.  Like I can do no wrong.

He is the greatest man I’ve ever known.  A loving father, even to children with whom he shares no DNA.  A giving husband.  A hard worker, eager to provide for our family. 

I love him for his quirky ways.  For his sensitivity.  For his generosity.  For his contemplative side.  I love him for his eagerness to make me laugh.  For his insecurities.  For his gorgeous brown eyes. 

I once told him that he was brilliant and that he had a joie de vivre unlike anyone I’d ever known. 

It still holds true.

Happy Anniversary baby.  I love you.  All the time in the world.

My favorite month of the year is just around the corner. 

October.

My favorite because with it comes crisp air, pumpkin bread, gorgeous fall leaves and the birthday of yours truly.

Until a few years ago I wouldn’t have been able to think of a single bad thing about the month of October. 

My how things change.

I can think of something now.  Something really menacing.  Something that annoys me more than losing socks to the washing machine.  Something that, try as I might, I just can’t accept.

Football.

More specifically the sound of the football on the television. This is how it happens: I’ll be hanging out in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for a yummy minestrone.  I hear a commotion from the other room and I drop my knife and go to see what the matter might be.  In the playroom I find that Cassidy is torturing Jayce again.  I threaten them both with a beating and calmly return to the sanctity of my kitchen only to find that all is not well.  The soothing XM radio channel on the TV has quite abruptly been changed to something far more obnoxious.  Whistles screech loudly from the TV speakers.  Large gatherings of people (predominantly men) can be heard simultaneously cheering and hissing and making deep guttural noises that their mothers clearly did not tell them are rather unbecoming.  Booming voices of sportscasters ring out overly animated calls of fouls and touchdowns.  Their roller coaster voices echo off of my granite counter tops and leave me wanting nothing more than to throw my KitchenAid through the screen, thereby sufficiently silencing the game. 

Football makes me momentarily wish we didn’t own a DVR.  Or a HDTV.  Or at least that I could turn it off until the final whistle of the Super Bowl blows.

I used to be a cheerleader.  The sound of a football game being broadcast to the masses filled me with adrenaline.  Now it makes my blood boil.  Seriously.  Downright boil.

I’m going to bed now.

Wake me when it’s February.

If you are reading today, then either you read my first installment and are a glutton for boredom, or you forgot that Darcie was gone and wanted to read whatever clever musings she was writing about today.  For the latter group of you, I will apologize in advance and recommend that if you are going to read this – you start at the beginning – yesterday’s post.  For the rest of you dial 1-800-BLOGS02 to keep your new favorite blogger in the competition…

3. Disney World.

OK, I had to add this or else I risk severe bodily harm.  While it might be inflated at number three, our first trip to DW was an amazing experience.  You all know Darcie well enough to know that I’d heard all about Disney World.  However, I had never been.  I (foolishly) thought that Disney World was just another theme park.  Yes, yes, yes … blasphemy, right??  I was just misguided.

Months before our first trip, I remember calling Darcie and spending hours looking at the Disney website and asking her Disney World trivia.  That was when I first learned that while flowers were of no use when Darcie was mad, talking to her about Disney World changed her mood faster than you can say ‘It all started with a mouse.‘ Now I am not a great storyteller, so I will spare you the details of our trip (though if you ever end up on Darcie’s bad side, I recommend you ask her about it) – you will just have to take my word that it was an unbelievable trip and afterwards, I was not only a member…I was the president (OK-maybe I was the vice president, but it just doesn‘t have the same ring to it!)

2. Our Wedding Day.

When I proposed to Darcie, we both wanted to have a ceremony that involved the girls.  Beyond that, we didn’t know exactly what else we wanted.  Topping our list was getting married somewhere tropical.  I personally had visions of flip-flops, board shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and an ocean breeze – oh yea, and this guy performing the ceremony:

For a variety of reasons, we decided upon a small ceremony in Tucson – at that time, our soon to be new home.  We had an amazing ceremony at the Westward Look Resort.  I got my first peek at the amazing planner and designer that Darcie is and at the amazing team the two of us make.  We wrote our own vows and ceremony; we created our own programs and favors; we picked out all of the music and arrangement; we did it all.  And it was all absolutely perfect!  We even had a rainbow appear just before we had our wedding pictures taken… if that is not a sign, I don‘t know what is!!  Now, I won‘t bore you with the details…but I will tell you that I will never ever forget seeing her for the first time in her dress that night.  The whole world stopped in time and she was the only person I could see.  Funny how that feeling never went away!  Oh and if any of you suckers lovely ladies ever has the yearning to provide us with a week of child care for our four delightful children, we still fantasize about that tropical ceremony!!

And the number one event is…

1. The Birth of our Son.

You knew it had to be big in order to top our wedding day – right?  I think this is as big as it gets.  Now, I realize that I am preaching to the choir here – most of you being moms yourself.  But let me try to put this to you from a dad‘s point of view.  For starters, we struggled with the decision to have another child.  There were times when I felt like our family was complete and other times when I felt like we really needed one more.  When we finally made our decision, I knew that we were doing exactly what we were supposed to be doing.

Now living in a house with four women, I really wanted to have a son.  Not to say I would have been disappointed with a girl, but I would have felt bad making her play with GI Joes and tackle football.  We bought a book on how to choose the sex of your baby, inconspicuously titled “How to Choose the Sex of Your Baby” and followed it to the letter – don’t worry, I won’t get into any more details than that.  The day that Darcie found out that she was pregnant, she got a box and put the positive pregnancy test in it and had me open it as a gift!  Ignoring the fact that she essentially gave me a stick with her pee on it, it was so sweet!  Just thinking about it now almost makes my eyes tear up.  I hung on Darcie‘s every change and growing belly.  I read all the books, I followed his growth on the internet, we got a 3D ultrasound to get a better look at him, and I would fall asleep at night with my hand on Darcie‘s stomach.  The pregnancy itself was an amazing experience-which is easy for me to say because I didn‘t get sick or pee when I coughed!

I can still remember very specific details about the day he was born – which is a big deal for me because I am not very detail oriented (read this as: I am an unobservant man who probably didn‘t notice that you got your hair cut or lost weight or got a nose ring.)  The actual birthing was not the most pleasant of experiences.  Jayce sort of got stuck, which is not surprising when you consider that Jayce was a large baby (a point of pride for me) and that Darcie is 5’3″ and not heavy (I don‘t know the rules about putting your wife‘s weight on the internet, so I think it best to ere on the side of caution here.)  The trauma of the doctor using a toilet plunger to yank him out was a bit much for Jayce, who was pretty sure he wanted to stay right where he was, and his first experience in the world was chest compressions and oxygen from a mask.  That moment, when our newborn son was being treated and my wife was laying, exhausted and bleeding, on the hospital bed, I have never felt more torn.  I couldn‘t leave my wife‘s side even though I wanted to be by my son.  I think she noticed, and being an American Gladiator of emotional strength, she ordered me to Jayce‘s side.  As you all well know, Jayce turned out just fine despite the brief scare (I think he was faking because he was mad at me for cutting his cord!)  But that day, my relationship with Darcie changed forever.  Just watching her give so much of herself not only to give life to our son, but to make me a father, still touches me.  That experience is a microcosm of the kind of person Darcie is.  If it is important, she will give everything she has for it and ask for nothing in return.  If that isn‘t the kind of person who deserves everything – I don‘t know who is!!

So, that is my top 5 list…I hope you all enjoyed hearing about Darcie from my point of view.  I know it is hard to believe, but she really is as amazing as she seems.  And since she is too humble to brag on herself, it is my pleasure to do that for her.  Now ladies, go ahead and leave me comments at your own peril – knowing that each new comment goes straight to my already inflated head!  And in the meantime, I will try to scratch something together for tomorrow’s blog since I lost my nerve before I stretched this one out into tomorrow as well!

As you all know, Darcie is out of town for the weekend, and so, being the good husband that she frequently brags about, I decided to step up and help her out with some blog content.  Now, I hope you aren’t expecting any sort of literal genius – that’s my wife’s job.  I’m more logical than creative, which is just one of the million reasons we complement each other so well.  But, the last thing I want is for you “her loyal reader” to feel neglected while she is in California!

As I’ve considered what exactly to write about to another group of Mom’s, I realized that I would need to leverage the one thing that we all have in common – Darcie!  So, I figured what better way to fill space entertain you than to provide you with my top 5 list of milestones / events so far in our life together.

5. Getting out of the Army.

So, this might not seem like an item that would crack the top 5- but it is exceedingly deserving of this spot because of all the struggles Darcie and I faced in the Army.  I spent five years in the Army and this time included 5 different duty locations: Georgia, South Korea, California, Arizona, and Iraq.  Three of these places came in the two years that Darcie and I were either engaged or married!  Beyond that, Darcie and I are the farthest thing from a cultural fit in the Army!!  Just to provide a brief summary, while Darcie and I were married I was: sent to Iraq on my birthday with less than a month notice; was called countless times between the hours of 2AM and 4AM; was forced to spend weeks at a time away from my family while training; and left my house at 4:45 AM only to return at 6:00 PM (or later) each and every day.  Throughout all of this, Darcie was always there for me.  She provided me with strength, love, and support.  She had endured more than her share of hard times in her life, and during this period, she was forced to endure mine as well.  Through everything, she was a rock.  She put in extra hours while I worked late.  She changed her plans when I would have to be at work over weekends.  She did it all alone while I was in Iraq.  She even drove down and met me at the airport in El Paso when I came home from the desert.

The night I was officially released – we celebrated like rock stars!  We both felt like new people.  It opened up an amazing new chapter in our lives that is incomparable to anything I have ever experienced.  Further, it closed a chapter filled with struggle, strife, and hard times.  I was overjoyed in the knowledge that I could now do a better job of building the life she deserved – a life that included a husband and father.  Two and half years later, I feel like I have been successful in this endeavor and I can definitely assure you that the grass remains greener out of the Army!

4. Camping at San Simeon.

This was my first quasi-vacation with Darcie and the girls.  I don’t think this is something that I have ever told her, but Darcie impressed me like crazy on this trip and any part of me that wasn’t in love with her before that was hopelessly lost afterwards.  Up to this point, Darcie was always a princess.  She was always clean, tidy, and washed her hands so much that it was a wonder she had skin left.  But on this trip, all of that changed.  Darcie wore some grungy clothes that I was surprised she even owned.  She used a Coleman stove to cook food that not even Coleman knew was possible.  She went 3 days without showering.  She flew a kite.  She was dirty.  She played with fire.  She was graceful, beautiful, and breathtaking.  I will never forget the side of Darcie that I saw on that trip and I realized just how lucky I was to be with someone like her – this beautiful, complicated woman who is so much more than meets the eye!

OK – so as I seem to share Darcie’s propensity to ramble on (in a good way, of course) I’ve decided to stop here and save the rest for tomorrow’s blog.  Besides, delayed gratification is the best kind!

Last night was the second time in less than a month that Jeff and I had a date night. I know. We‘re liable to get spoiled by that sort of thing. Our first date of the month was during our trip to Washington DC over Spring break. My dear of a sister-in-law, Ashley, kindly stepped up and offered babysitting services to give hubby and I a chance to enjoy a night out in the city. We ate at this cool restaurant that was like right across the street from the White House. If you‘ve only seen pictures of it on TV, you‘re sort of led to believe that the President‘s house is all stately and set apart from everything. Not so. Like I said, it was right across the street from a restaurant. And since it was, we couldn‘t resist stopping by on our way home to snap a photo or two.

Last night’s date took place much closer to home.

Awhile ago I saw an ad in a local newsletter for a ‘Kids Nite Out’ sponsored by a local church. Five bucks bought us five hours of mommy and daddy time to spend as we saw fit. And boy did we live it up people, let me tell you. We started the evening at a fancy shmancy local restaurant. How did it merit my fancy shmancy rating you ask?  Well for starters there were only five tables in the whole place. That alone qualifies it for fancy at the very least. Then, because each and every item on the menu contained at least one ingredient that I‘d never heard of before, I felt the shmancy rating was in order.

The food was good, not great though. I had glorified chicken with mashed potatoes and asparagus. It was nicely presented, but the flavor didn‘t live up for me. Jeff was far more adventurous and ordered some fish (Pike) that the waiter described as a mix between mahi-mahi and swordfish on the meatiness and texture scale. Hmm. And I didn‘t even know there was a meatiness and texture scale. Just goes to show you learn something new every day. Oh, but get this. His fish was ‘painted‘ (waiter’s description, not mine) with squid ink. Now, if you‘ve seen Disney‘s Finding Nemo you remember well the scene when the squid gets frightened and to her friends says, ‘Awww, you guys made me ink.‘ Well, I could only think of two things as Jeff was enjoying his squid ink-painted fish.

1. How does one go about collecting squid ink for later use as paint on Pike?

2. Did the first person who tasted squid ink do so on a drunken dare after watching Finding Nemo with his best friend who happened to be a culinary genius?

These are just things I consider during dates at fancy shmancy restaurants with my husband. Moving right along though.

As a testament to just how fancy shmancy the restaurant really was, let me tell you that we nearly skipped on dessert if for no other reason than we couldn’t decipher the item descriptions and we didn‘t want to embarrass ourselves by asking. Not that a repeat of one time at a different fancy shmancy restaurant when Jeff asked the waiter what ‘foy grass’ was would be an embarrassment or anything. Oh, and in case you haven‘t heard, foie gras is fattened duck liver. Yum.

In the end, Jeff couldn‘t resist and asked what ‘capirotada’ was. Turns out capirotada is a Mexican bread pudding. This one was covered in cranberry apple chutney and caramel sauce. Yeah. DE-lish. The dessert made the meal for me. And since you all visited my blog today for a food review, there ya go.

After dinner we had some mommy and daddy time left before the babysitting jig was up so we did what any hot-blooded American couple would do. That’s right people: we went to Target. Date clothes and all. We really needed a new trashcan. Our handy one with the step-up lid broke last week and with a toddler in the house who happens to be just tall enough to see over the rim, a lidless trashcan just won‘t do. Lidless trashcans and toddlers don’t mix. That’s how you end up with spaghetti remnants in the storage drawer of your leather ottoman.

And it was another exciting date night for us. I guess it says a lot about the kind of peeps we are that we didn’t use mommy and daddy time to go to the rock climbing gym or to a concert. Nope. It was shopping for a trashcan at Target. Oh, but we did it in peace my friends. We perused the aisles of Target stopping to look at whatever caught our eye and not once did we have to run to the front of the store in search of paper towels to clean up spilled Icee. Not once.

I can handle date nights like this more often.