That Fresh Air

Birthannukah ended with hands all over our bodies. We got a couples massage at Santa Fe Day Spa in Lee Branch and walked away from Birthannukah well rested and feeling like tingly noodles. Good. Yes. It was hard, though, to walk away from such high celebrating. We rolled into the weekend feeling very much like Birthannukah was still upon us. I looked down to find that a little bit of it had spilled on my shirt. It was still with us. Thus, Saturday saw more wild celebrating as we ventured to The Tilted Kilt, a Hooters-like restaurant with push-up bras and low-riding tiny kilts, where Mr. Husband was like a kid in a toy store. So many boobs!

He was all smiles and narrating himself to the waitress, which I asked him to not do again. She doesn’t care about your inner struggle or your this beer or that beer decision. But he was so cute and he drank the draft PBR that I recommended. He’ll always have that taste of that in his mouth—how they get the tin can in the keg, I’ll never know, but it was there. After that, we went, me walking and Mr. Husband skipping with boobs dancing in his head, to see Tarantino’s new wonder Inglorious Basterds. Loved it. We were still living it up Birthannukah style.

We turned to each other a couple of times and commented on the freedom we have. The great, wild no-kid freedom to do whatever and whenever we want. We realize that it will all change. For that reason, we’re looming into maybe-it’s-better-if-we-don’t-have-kids range. And then we both start to fear our cold, lonely deaths and remember that we need children to take care of us in our twilight years. And we’re back to a have-kids-but-live-it-up-now-like-crazy mentality. We came home Saturday night and played video games together. We sit side-by-side on the couch and laugh and talk about how very tough we are with our newly acquired super powers. We’re living it up. And sometimes we can fly.

Sunday was family Sunday. In Stewartland, that means the three brothers with their others gather at the Stewart family home and “take air” on the back porch. The act of “taking air” is something new to me—I learned about this activity the first time I visited Mr. Husband’s family in spring 2006. Mrs. Mother-in-Law asked me to take some air with her. I was under the impression that air was already automatically moving in and out of my lungs, my mouth, and me. She informed me that that the act of “taking air” occurs on the back porch with a glass of white wine. Me and my current air were in unanimous agreement—we shall take some fresh air with my Mrs. Mother-in-Law.

Every birthday or any random family Sunday, we typically congregate on the back porch.
The boys roll in one by one, then glasses are arranged and held in hand while the two dogs trip between boys and girls, smelling all sorts of new, strange, and wonderful things. For Mr. Husband’s birthday, we took air and laughed as we talked about Birthannukah and what had come to pass. It was a normal Sunday in Stewartland—the kind of Sunday that makes everything in your life suddenly seem just fine.

Mrs. Mother-in-Law baked Mr. Husband’s favorite cake: yellow cake with chocolate icing. I decorated it with swirls and sparkly icing. The candles on the cake lit the kitchen as we all sang and declared a happy birthday for Mr. Husband. And then we ate cake. Mr. Father-in-Law grilled steaks for dinner and Mrs. Mother-in-Law made twice baked potatoes. It was a feast of family feasts--Mr. Husband's favorite meal-from-his-mom. The family dug in. The family ate. The family laughed. The family was relaxed. Of course we did—we were all filled with fresh-fresh-fresh family air.