When babies explode, we spend money.

We started off the week on Sunday going to a baby shower where we were the only couple without a kid to put on display. Sure, we had our friends’ kids to play with and act like they were our kids when the parents weren’t looking, but we didn’t have a kid of our own. All the couples stood around talking about first words, first steps, and various problems with spitting or pinching while we tried not to look awkward or make the other couples feel awkward for us. We don’t want to be that couple. It’s amazing how in the past four years, our friends have basically exploded with kids with many more on the way. We celebrate the explosion and love being around the multiplying kid masses. We are forever attending kid parties and baby showers. Maybe, at some point, all the kid juice will rub off on us and we’ll have something to show for our eagerness, willingness, and hard work in the bedroom.

On the way home from the shower, as we glided down Hwy 280 from the top of Double Oak Mountain past Eagle Point, Mr. Husband asked me what I was going to do with the rest of the day. I said, “I don’t know …what are you going to do?” He responded with the essential comeback, “I asked you first.” Ball’s in my court. It’s me time. I call the shots. Whatever I say goes. It’s Christmas all over the world and, right now, in our car. I carefully constructed my answer, providing ample data ahead of said motive so that it was easy to persuade my victim—my always willing-to-listen-to-logic husband who does love to see me smile. Earlier in the week, we’d divided up our left-over tax return money that was our bonus to spend with wild abandon after paying off our credit card debt. It all comes back to the house. We have debt because of the house, but we also got a super tax return because of the house.

Half of the surplus goes to savings—to improve our future. And the other half goes to life—improving our immediate right now.

Bring on the wild abandon! Can it still be called wild abandon if we detail meticulously by writing down how we plan to distribute our thousand-dollar untamed shopping spree? The written plan is simply a guideline. We decide how to dole out each hundred-dollar chunk and then stick to it or veer from it as chance strikes. We have a few things we really want to do: buy a new piece of furniture for the house from Southern Wicker—a bookshelf or side table. It’ll be something small in the $300 range. Mr. Husband wants to start making his own beer. With supplies and a class to teach him, that’ll cost $200. We know that Magic City Art Connection is coming, so we’d like to spend $300 there to improve our walls. So far, in our heads, we’ve spent $800. The other $200 was dedicated to this and that. It was up-in-the-air cash. Ideas were thrown out, but we decided to pad our first three ideas. Over-spending on any of the above was made possible by the not-in-concrete extra $200. Good plan.

So back to Sunday, driving home from the baby shower with our emptiness and our need to spend. I say we should visit Southern Wicker near the Galleria. Mr. Husband groans and wonders if we can find something closer. Mr. Husband says he really wants a table for eating that we can put on the upper porch. I balk. I want a bookshelf. Our horns lock, but when I think about it more—Mr. Husband is right. I weigh the happiness that might be obtained from the bookshelf or side table and then weigh the happiness that can be harnessed from a bistro table and chairs on the upper porch. Mr. Husband may have something there.

We visit Pier One first. Glass, iron, wicker, and rocking chairs. Not what we’re looking for. Next, we dash to World Market as the rain begins to pour down and cover us. We laugh and think of Scotland. The rain will forever make us think of our honeymoon where we learned that rain will not kill—an umbrella is not necessary. Let it rain. At World Market, we sit and try a variety of chairs and tables. Mr. Husband wants a bench for the upper porch because he wants to cuddle and snuggle with me under the stars. But the bench isn’t quite right. We try the $99 Adirondack chairs, but that’s not it. Not yet.

Over near the bookshelves and soap, we find a drop-leaf table with curved back dining chairs in a natural-like wood. Interesting. Mr. Husband has a seat. Mr. Husband sees it in his head. Mr. Husband walks away thinking. I stay, looking down at the table with evening dinners on the upper porch dancing in my head. It will fit. It will be cozy. We do it. We first run home to print off a 25% off coupon for a friends and family sale that’s happening that very day—score! We over spend by $100. Good thing we planned for the up-in-the-air cash. Yes.

In one week, we’ve eaten dinner out there five times. We’ve had two dinner gatherings—one smashing party last night with the McDermott’s and many bottles of wine. In the past week, we’ve said to each other at least a dozen times, “this is the best decision we’ve ever made.” While it may not be the best ever, it is the best right now. It’s ever so rewarding to spend money wisely on something that brings us ever so much closer.

The greener grass.

It is a lazy Saturday in Stewartville. The cats trip about at our feet, making sure no calf goes uncozied in this house and no ear is without a symphony of meows. Both Mr. Husband and I sit up in the red library, door to the upper porch open as we drink our morning coffee. We’ve got various They Might Be Giants songs making us smile from Mr. Husband’s computer speakers. This is exactly where we want to be. Later today, our subdivision will erupt in super block party where we’ll all fall into the street in front of our house and all the other similarly shaped houses on Werewolf Lane. Did we prepare? You betcha! Last night, with a glass of red wine and my ever faithful kitty companion, Bonita, at my feet and trying ever to steal off the front porch, I kept up with the Joneses.

We live in an awesome neighborhood. Most houses are filled with vibrant young families that are full of smiles and cheer. There is a ladies group where we get together on the last Tuesday in the month to chat and sometimes learn something. Angelia, who is definitely one of the Joneses, taught us last month about how to put pots of flowers together for dramatic front porch effect. She went to several nurseries to find just the right plants to pile into a pot for super punch. I didn’t do such a good job—we went to one nursery. That simply had to do on short notice and with very little time (we never have enough time). I’ve got a serious thing for blooms. Those are flowers with flowers on them. Go figure. All my blooms will probably die in our full-on-sun front porch, but for today—for the block party—they are perky, perfect, and I am proud.

Mr. Husband and I used to make a concerted effort to get out and take advantage of what Birmingham has to offer. This meant that we’d visit the Botanical Gardens often, strolling about on her paths and visiting her different areas like the Japanese garden and the hothouse for free. FREE. We’d walk hand-in-hand and let conversation flow naturally about the trees, bushes, and flowers. Our daily lives are consumed by jobs that we love probably a little too much, so on the weekends—we try to live outside of work. It’s perhaps a little disturbing that we have to work to turn work off in our heads, but, then, this is what also helps to find ourselves at the Botanical Gardens or the zoo on the weekends. We are on an adventure from work.

One weekend, we went to the Botanical Garden to bathe in pensive thoughts as we tried sitting and being still and calm in various different spots in the garden. We’d enjoy one bench after another, one view after another. We finally found ourselves laying on a little bit of lawn just outside the Japanese garden. A perfect lawn with soft grass that was sprightly green and inviting. We splayed our body parts across the greeny-green surface, staring up into the cloud littered sky, saying to one another how perfect just now this moment is. We lay still. Quiet. Calm. And then the itching began. It was slow. It didn’t burn immediately, but the itching was like a nagging—like a little piece of thread hanging off the end of a blazer sleeve. Not really annoying but enough of a discomfort that it fills your thoughts every time you see it, “I should cut that off. Where are the scissors?”

We wiggled a little. Slight movement. Still staring at the sky. The itching grew and spread. Turning and repositioning didn’t restore the calm we had just three minutes ago. Oh, no! The grass! The grass is killing us! The grass is so perfect and beautiful and green and suspiciously stout and hearty because it is filled with fertilizers and God knows what else—the grass is attacking us! The grass! It’s filled with people—the grass didn’t want us there. We jumped up, itching and rubbing all exposed body parts. We leapt from the wonderful grass and found the brick path that is meant for humans. While we were laughing and glaring at the stupid grass that tried to kill us, we realized that there is most likely no calm for us. We are fooling ourselves if we think we can be content with the calm. We are alive and ready. Together, Mr. Husband and I are itching for a great big life. It’s coming. It is.

Travel makes the heart grow fonderish.

So there was some crazy sadness in me that just wouldn’t go away. Stupid miscarriage. And Mr. Husband and I tried so hard to focus and focus and not let it get in the way. But it did. There was anger and the unattainable unknown. There were doctors appointments, a slew of them. Question after question went unanswered. In the end, all we got was that there was no answer. There was no reason. Test after test reveals that we are normal. So far as the first level of doctors can see. It’s common, they say. And so we go on. Waiting.

But the waiting doesn’t allow for the super closeness that we needed. There is a one-month probation. We were on probation, restricted and constrained from jumping right back into the game. That’s tough, not being able to touch and enjoy life as we want to at that very moment. And so I went to Germany. Dive into work and forget my troubles. Drink the wonder of the Fatherland—enjoy beer at beer’s finest.

Where did that leave Mr. Husband? Where did that leave me? It left us on different continents. It left us both in a kind of limbo. How do we get back to where we once belong? It was one thing after another. There was no time to stop and think, but we did. It seems like we did a lot of that, but it was never enough. We kept to ourselves, watching Netflix and killing zombies via our trusty Xbox. But a void was ever-present. We needed to reconnect. A bigger loss was necessary. A loss that was felt by distance.

I buried myself in work, relishing the fortune I had to be able to travel and stretch my work legs. I went to Berlin on a trip that took 24 hours to get there, going through sunny Paris where I got to spend three hours in the corner of gate D24, drinking warm Heinekens and trying to stomach a chewy baguette. Finally getting to Berlin, I found my luggage lost to me and still in New York City. The Berlin baggage handler gave me a lengthy lecture on being a “Klusendorf” and not speaking German before he told me that my luggage simply didn’t make it. Quick wardrobe change in the Berlin airport and 300 Euros later, I was ready for Monday morning’s meeting. Picking up my luggage back in Berlin, ready for the flight to Heidelberg, I was glad to see the Heidelberg Marriott where everything seemed to fall into place. All the while, my boss’s Blackberry doesn’t work, so I have no clear and direct communication with Mr. Husband. He is lost to me.

Yet, when I finally get to my room in the Marriott, room number 118, and open up my luggage, tiny little love notes float out from between my not-so-carefully folded clothes. Tiny little love notes that remind me that back home and forever there is someone who is rooting for me. I laugh as I look at a scarily cut square that has a note scrawled upon it about what a good job I’m surely doing. Later, I borrow a phone from another co-worker and mention the silly-looking square. Mr. Husband smiles through the phone and informs me, “that’s a trapezoid.”
Of course it is. How silly of me not to know. Nothing but the ever unusual and wonderful from Mr. Husband. On Wednesday morning, I find a trapezoid love note tucked in my favorite pink argyle socks that mentions how one day we will be parents once we get past all of this … this.

All the sudden, I’m home again.

Yet, coming home was still hard. Facing the disappointment all over again. I pride myself on being resilient. Ok, so, maybe miscarriage with the one I love is not something I can wake up the next day and bounce back from—who knew. I didn’t. The love was always there, despite how distant and hurt the both of us were and are. We remain. We are strong. At least we're putting up a damn good front of it now.

Yesterday, I felt real again. It was me speaking through the phone. I wasn’t pretending. Not like I was pretending before, because I didn’t know. I was masking. Now I’m real. Now we’re ready? We did a lot of making up in these last two days. It’s not that we were fighting, it’s that we just were not right. Ah, look at the struggle. Is this preparation? I can only hope. Like we had to jump through hoops to make us appreciate? I can only say this now looking forward to hope.


This marriage, this life, this love is such an amazing ever-turning thing. May I always turn over to see my Mr. Husband. Sure, his morning breath could be better, but I’d miss it if it didn’t curl my eyelashes in just the exact-eye-opening way it does now.

Miscarriage and Mr. Husband.

It’s no longer painful but a poignant part of us: we miscarried a week ago. We were so happy and excited and totally believed the moon was made of cheese just for us. The magic of pregnancy eludes us, but we had it for an hour or so. We’ll keep trying, and we do. We have a great doctor and an understanding staff to take care of us.

But the sparkly part of everything left us for a while. First, we were instructed by the world police not to talk about it. And now, we’re instructed by the world police not to talk about that. Oh, goodness. Don’t talk. Hide from the world. Give me some kind of super religion blanket that allows me to forget reality. That’s not for us. That’s just weird. It’s real. Now. Here.

It’s a struggle. We want children so badly. The thing is—have you met my husband? Have you met Mr. Husband who is commonly known as “Super Husband”?? This man deserves children. Totally. He is so kind and understanding and the children of our friends flock to him like he’s some kind of Lego disciple.
He deserves children. Next weekend, we’re going to take the Loaner Son for the entire weekend. We told Mrs. Loaner Son that we have an emptiness that is hurting us. Mrs. Loaner Son, in her continuous and ever benevolence agreed to go skiing. Good woman. Give us your son! We need to fill the emptiness somehow. We are ever thankful to that woman who is also going through pain (divorce) who continues to share with us when we are in need. We are lucky on many different levels.

But not baby lucky. No.

And we couldn’t talk about it from the start. How painful is that? We cannot share. We cannot sing out loud. That’s nuts. But we understand now. We miscarried. It never really was—well, it was but for a very short time. I told my best friend, Debs, that we were telling our inner circle because when and if we go through a miscarriae—the circle will go through it with us. And they did. I had already had a miscarriage eleven years ago, so the idea, the possibility, the potential was always with me. We celebrated too early. Frack that! We’re going to celebrate! We did. We are. And we will. You cannot stop us.

We will celebrate. With wild abandon. Every step of the way will be a victory. And when we encounter pain, we will turn it into something not-pain. Somehow. We will. We can. Stupid life--we shake our fists at you!

We got pregnant. Mr. Husband’s glorious sperm came to meet my egg and they got it on. They did. It took Clomid (50 mg) to make it happen. But we did it. We documented the process all along the way for our families. And what are we left with now besides an empty uterus? Hope. We got pregnant. We did it.

We can do it again.

And we will. We are aggressive. We will continue to be so. We will bring baby Klusendorf-Stewart into the world one way or another. I’ve found that My Mr. Husband, the main subject of this blog, is even more worthy than ever of someone penning his amazing abilities. This man held me up and took care of me in ways that I never expected. I’m a strong woman. He’s a much stronger man. He went to the doctor and asked her a million questions. He helped to build a plan for us going forward. He even sat in on my pelvic exam after the miscarriage. He now knows what the cold silver duck is. Wow. He didn’t flinch. And I was the one who put him there. The doctor asked if he’d sit in, and I said, “Yes, he will. “ And he did. It wasn’t his decision, but I wanted him there.

Mr. Husband for president. Was there ever a better man?

Band of Gypsies (Who Knows): Valentime's in Four Parts.

Part One.

Valentime’s Day is an event. It typically costs money. It always costs money. And we like to spoil each other. Mr. Husband is my lover. And I am his ever-adoring fan. But for this year’s Valentime’s Day, we did not spend the actual day staring deep into each others’ eyes until we started to feel sick—maybe vomit a little in our mouths—no, we did not. We changed things up a bit this year and went to spend Valentime’s Day with Grandma Jean Stewart who recently lost her Harry. We gave ourselves, the gift of time, and spent our Valentime’s Day listening to stories about the “best nine years” of two people’s lives. Two people who had 40-50 year long first marriages and then unexpectedly found love again when their spouses passed away. Here was Jean, alone on her first Valentime’s Day after Harry’s death. Here was Jean full of stories and details and love.

Before taking off to Nashville, we celebrated in thrifty style. This was a big change from last year’s Valentime’s evening at Chez Lulu. It was way cheaper. Way.

We celebrated Valentime’s Day evening on Thursday night. Upon the advice from my boss, we were recommended to the local Little Caesar’s for the $5 walk-in pizza. What a deal. Walk in. Pick up. Maul. Eat without breathing. Do not chew. Swallow. Nom. Nom. Nom. We didn’t even sit at the kitchen table or make it to the couch—that is how violently we both attacked the pizza, killing it like we were a pair of Roman Brutuses. Neither of us had eaten Little Caesar’s pizza for years. For me, it was the stuff of hockey banquets and Sunday night Star Trek on TV. For Jeff, it was everything. The man loves him some pizza. My Mr. Husband has four loves in life (in this order): 1) Video Games, 2) His wife, 3) Beer, and 4) Pizza. He’s a simple man, and I’m simply his wife who likes to feed him. We inhaled the Little Caesar’s and then opened up cards and gifts. We spoiled each other, which we shouldn’t have done during these economic times, but it is right and proper and good to hear that squeal of delight that echoes through a house upon successfully surprising a loved one with a gift that screams, “I listen to you!”

I also got an iPhone, but that was not for Valentime’s. That was simply because I deserved it and my Verizon contract had expired. My life is anew. It is fresh. I am connected. Like. All. The. Time. There are no barriers. I am everything. Well, at least my iPhone likes to make me feel like that. Not a bad feeling at all. I licked my iPhone the other morning. I couldn’t help myself. Mr. Husband supported me fully. In fact, I believe he gave me a round of applause. That’s super support.

Later that night, we packed our suitcase for Nashville with the goal of seeing Jean, seeing a museum, seeing the Schermerhorn Symphony Hall, and seeing a free wind performance at Vanderbilt. We accomplished a lot in Nashville. Jean put us up at the world’s finest guest lodging—the guest room at Richland Place, the retirement home where she and Harry first met. On Saturday morning, we ventured to the Frist Center for the Medieval art exhibit where we examined lots of reliquaries that supposedly contained pieces of saints. Yes. Pieces. Like bits and pieces of St. Thomas. An ear or tooth from St. Denis. Pieces. Awesome. And the boxes and containers were so magnificently decorated, that one forgot that they contained dead pieces. Pieces.

I really found this fascinating. I was genuinely cracked up over it. Clearly, you see this as evidenced in my repeating the “pieces” point. Driving it home, I am. Pieces. Jean and I would lean in and exclaim about the beauty of an object, and then we’d read the description. Oh! Oooh. Not so endearing and beautiful when the object d’art is something that is so lovely to look at in order to distract from the gruesome ... pieces. The truth—someone is dead in there, at least a piece of someone, and we’re supposed to revel in the beauty of its container. The pieces container. Seriously, I cannot use italics enough to convey our surprise and amusement.

Upon leaving the Frist, Jean asked us Granddaddy Harry’s favorite question upon leaving any type of museum or attraction: “what was your favorite part of the exhibit?” This was a no-brainer for me. Me, all mesmerized and giddy over the reliquaries and their various pieces that I could not see but was obviously deep in imagination land and living with deeper now. Mr. Husband, while not sharing my utter sarcasm-has-nothing-on-me-fascination with pieces, agreed with me about my favorite part of the exhibit: the world’s oldest known zombie hand. If you love video games, you can appreciate zombies. Mr. Husband and I were positively giddy in front of the case filled with reliquaries when we realized the gilded silver encased hand was obviously that of a zombie. There was no doubt. We read through and above and over between the lines that the Frist Center cleverly offered to the casual museum goer to find this:

Found: First known zombie hand chewed off by infected Saint Denis after his being compromised by a band of violent gypsy zombie artisans. The band of gypsies promptly encased their first zombie hand in precious metals and worshiped it with fervor, fever, and bloodthirsty hunger. You never can get enough zombie hand.

What we especially appreciated in this between-the-lines reading was the marketing grab for attention at the end. Those zombies! Always trying to get you hooked!

And that was our Valentime’s Day up until noon: 2/14/2009.

Symphony = Loaner Son.

It’s always busy in Stewartville. This weekend we were awarded with one of our very favorite excursions: The Birmingham Symphony and Concert Chorale. The reason that we have a Loaner Son at all is due to this wonderful combination of music and singing that results in occasional performances at the Alys Stephens Performing Arts Center on UAB campus. Mrs. Loaner Son is a singer in the Birmingham Concert Chorale. We are certain that she is one of the best singers in the whole group. She must be. This is actually how she and I became such good friends years ago—I got the family ticket for her performances. I was the single girl at work who loves classical music. I was the boring geek girl who’d willingly give up a night at a bar for a night living the live NPR dream. I was the obvious choice for the free family ticket. This week, Mrs. Loaner Son had singing practice almost every night, so we had a lot of Loaner son practice as a result.

Here are some wonderful things that the Loaner Son has learned to do in this past week:

1) Pick his nose constantly to make me gag and amuse Mr. Husband.
2) Try to eat his boogers to hear our screams and protests.
3) Learned to eat an entire cupcake without pausing to breathe.
4) Jumping on the couch and screaming in a bid for more attention.
5) Take apart Transformers.
6) Draw a series of Picasso-like ducks with Crayola crayons.
7) Watch Shrek over and over and over and over.
8) Go an entire day without peeing in his big boy pants (Diego style).
9) Sing his ABCs, conveniently leaving out every third and fourth letter.
10) Bowling: he knocked down more pins than most adults.
11) Continue to pick his nose.

We had a full Loaner Son week that commenced with our having him stay the night last night as the Symphony and Concert Chorale celebrated their first ever five-star review for a performance: Carmina Burana. This was probably the most exciting part of our week EVER. We’d looked forward to having an entire evening with the Loaner Son for weeks. His mommy packed lots of books, various toys, his Diego sleeping bag, Diego pillow, and fun pajamas to get him ready for his big night out. And for Mr. Husband and I: Parenting 101 just got more involved. We were kind of worried, but we had each other to lean on—we figured we’d pull it off with finesse. We went to dinner at Don Pepe’s and then went to Dairy Queen for Blizzards. The whole time, we pretended to be a real family.

Mr. Husband and I sat there with our private thoughts, wondering if it will be like this when we have our own child to take care of through the night. The Loaner Son is an exceptionally good kid, despite the recent trend to pick the nose. If our child is like me, the child will be wild and non-stop, so we hope the child is like Mr. Husband: reserved, good humored, and quiet. Most likely, we will not get that lucky.
But this experience gave us the perfect opportunity to think really hard about it. To get ready. To hope. To dream. To want.

Last night, after our exciting night out where we ran up and down the sidewalks at Lee Branch after dinner, the three of us sat on the upper porch and watched the neighborhood below us. The Loaner Son crawled up on my lap and we rocked as we talked about the day. Soon, his eyes were starting to close. I rocked him and sang a made-up bedtime song as he fell asleep in my arms. Mr. Husband smiled next to me, watching the calm scene that included no nose picking (finally).

In the morning, the Loaner Son brought Mr. Husband a series of Transformers to fix. Mr. Husband made pancakes, and we all watched cartoons and sang silly songs. We thanked Mrs. Loaner Son for giving us this chance to see if we could make it through an entire night in our own home with someone else’s kid. Bring on the neighborhood kids. We can take it. Please, though, no nose picking.

Happiness is a warm cold.

Whenever I get sick, I am reminded of the best time I ever had being sick—on our honeymoon. It’s made being sick something romantic for me and for us. Today, I woke up with a sore throat. Sore enough that I suspected I was ripe with infection and only hours away from infecting the whole cube farm at work. My nose started to run in the simplest way to where I knew it would grow into something much more substantial. This was the beginning of the end for me. Remove the dramatics, and it turns out I will not die (most likely), but work was out of the question. For the safety of my co-workers, I sucked it up and took one for the team. I slept all day in a fever with my trusty cat Bonita stuck to my side and working as the best kind of feline heater on the right side of my body. Good cat. Awesome warmth.

Mr. Husband fed Thera-Flu to me before he left for work, braving the work day without his trusty companion and forced to fend for himself at lunch. Somehow he survives and is now looking through a picture book of Scotland with the Loaner Son downstairs. They were looking at Van Gogh books, but the Loaner Son decided that Vincent scared him. Well, ok, Vincent was depressed. I can see how the swirl of life, disappointment, and high intensity at all times can scare an almost three-year-old. The Loaner Son will be three years old in three weeks. Maybe when he’s five-years-old he’ll be ready for Van Gogh? I remember when they brought Van Gogh to Highland Elementary from the Toledo Museum of Art. I fell in love that day as someone’s mom
told us about the ear and the sadness and the never being appreciated until post mortem. I loved him then. I still do.

While I’m sick, I am exiled to upstairs. I sit all wrapped up watching TV without TiVo and suffer through my runny nose. I remember how being sick often doesn’t stop me. We knew when we left for Scotland on November 4th, 2007 that Mr. Husband was going to be sick. He had the beginning of a sore throat. So we packed Thera-Flu and promised each other that being sick would not ruin our honeymoon. No way. Thank goodness for Scottish beer and whiskey. With the happy combination of these wonderful liquids and Thera-Flu and some other Scottish cold drugs we found at the local Tesco, we were able to keep running every day. We would come back to our chalet every afternoon and nap for an hour or so, but we didn’t stop. We ran the entire time. We walked the little villages that we stayed in, Coylumbridge and Aviemore, from end to
end each day, discovering strangers. We became known to some as “the newlyweds.” We were cute and in love and knew that we were sending out infectious beams of happiness to everyone around us. It kept us going. We never stopped laughing and we learned that in Scotland, you don’t use an umbrella—you simply walk in the rain.

My mother taught me to run between the raindrops. Rain was always the enemy. Rain will ruin a good hair day. Rain will make it difficult to drive and arrive to a location in a timely manner. In Scotland, rain is a blessing from heaven. Surprisingly, in November, it wasn’t that cold in The Highlands. We didn’t worry about the rain. We embraced the rain. We walked around for hours in the rain, feeding our colds. We embraced our colds and fought off the desire to lay down and sleep for a thousand years. We did a really good job, too. From the photos, you’d never know that our pockets were stuffed with snotty tissues. It’s amazing what adding a fresh draft beer from the hills of Scotland will do to a cold. Knocks it right out. Or maybe it combined with the cold and gave us super strength. It was the best week of our lives—and the cold didn’t have a chance.

When we arrived home from our honeymoon, we let the cold have her merry day. We fell down. We were sicker than sick-sick. We were super sick. We went to see our family physician, the wonderful Dr. Licthy, and he prescribed awesome drugs for us that helped us get rid of the nasty Scotland cough and sleep out the illness. We got to be home from work sick together for another week. Best honeymoon ever. Being sick together will always be romantic for us. Mr. Husband makes me Thera-Flu and lectures me on staying in bed. He brings me Kleenex with lotion so my tender nose doesn’t hurt. He tucks me in. And I let him.

One of the best gifts in the world is having someone to take care of you when you’re sick. For this alone, marriage rocks. It is marriage perk #529. It is the special care perk. It keeps us warm. It's like so better than stupid chicken soup.