my kind of Prince

[My darling spouse has still taken possession of my cameras. Both of them. I guess they're our cameras, but they certainly aren't his. And so I'm left with my phone. If my mother let me say the word 'butt', I might call him that, but I'm not allowed, so he's safe for now. But it's rapidly escalating to ass. He better watch it.]


Every girl, somewhere in there, wishes she were married to a Prince. Because we are all secretly wanting to be thought of as princesses.

Right? I'm not the only one?

Bueller? Bueller?

But not every girl gets this dream. Life's not fair, nor is it lived in a castle.

I'm married to a most unromantic man.

I don't think he has ever brought me surprise flowers.

He doesn't believe in getting baby presents for me after I carry for nine months and birth (on this last one without any drugs) perfectly healthy, beautiful children. I do not resent this at all. I promise.

He regularly forgets my birthday. Including this past birthday. Scripture teaches us that love covers a multitude of sins. It has not sufficiently covered this one yet. I'm working on it.

He's gotten better at Christmas, but I'd venture to say that it has something to do with the fact that when we were engaged, on December 23rd, he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I burst into tears on my mother's front porch. (And I ain't the bursting into tears type). It damaged him. It should have. I'm just sayin'.

The man will not, I repeat, will not plan a date. It does not compute with him that it's the gesture of planning the date, not the actual date, that matters. He says, "You know what you'll have the most fun doing - why don't you just plan a date?"

He just doesn't have it in him.

And yes, sometimes this makes me sad. I wish he'd leave sweet notes in my sock drawer, surprise me with picnics in the front yard, and arrange surprise babysitters.

But, in my life, sometimes, other things, really are the most romantic. Because as much as, on occasion, princessness would be nice, I'm not a princess. I'm a busy, sometimes tired, wife, mother, hostess, cook, teacher.

At 11:12 p.m. last night, approximately 47 seconds after I quit reading Southern Living and we both turned off our bedside table lamps,




I sat straight up in bed, groaned a little bit, and said,





"I didn't put the red beans in water to soak over night... In fact, I never brought them in from the van"

[Side bar - Small Red Beans are the best beans for red beans and rice, in my not quite humble enough opinion about red beans. Kroger does not carry Small Red Beans. It makes me actively angry. I know this sounds ridiculous, but it's true. And so yesterday, I had to go to Wal Mart to buy red beans. I despise Wal Mart, but they carry Small Red Beans. So, I went, bought four bags, hoping they'll last me for the next couple o' months, and then proceeded to leave them in the car, because, well, red beans are not perishable, and I had all my school book to take inside, and well, don't judge.]

So, my husband, who was as far from the van as he could get and still be in our house, got up, in his boxers, went out into the chili night air, came back in, rinsed my red beans, put them in the water to soak, and came and crawled back in the warm bed with me.

I said, "I'll do it." and he said, "But then I'd be letting you do it, and I cannot do that..."

Yes this man, right here, giving our baby the bottle and smiling at his life he loves, got up, and fixed my blunder.

Almost without a word.

Yes, he grumbled a bit. But then, he rolled over and patted me, and said, "I'm so glad you're such a good cook."

Now that is my kind of Prince.

(Can someone have a conversation with him about baby presents...?)