She Likes Purple

Your Day

There are many, many mothers in my life. My sister—a beautiful, dark-haired mother to an almost-two-year-old boy who has his mother's gorgeous coloring and her fierce independence—my sister-in-law—the most calm and grounded and downright together mother I know—and Mike's cousins who are just so beautiful and loving. I have many friends—some who are just about to be mothers and some who have just become one. There is also my stepmother who is the quirkiest, most original, most authentic woman I know who taught me how to drive a car and how to climb out on a limb and, also, how to be beautiful in my own skin. Then, of course, there's Mike's mom who once, years and years ago, when I first met Mike, made me realize how much fun raising a son would be one day.

But of all the moms in my life, this day makes me think of one more than any other:

My own.

My mother, right there, was in her second trimester with me. That's my sister she's holding (circa 1981).

My mother has fought her entire life for respect, for her own space, for happiness, and it hasn't always been an easy fight. She raised two daughters—both demanding and exhausting in our own ways—and she did so for many years without any help, when her own family had turned its back on us. Because of all she's gone through, my mother takes nothing—not a minute, not a second—for granted. And there is just nothing she wouldn't do for both my sister and me.

I have a great, albeit small, circle of family members who love me, who are loyal to me, who came to my wedding and poured their love out for Mike and me. I have incredible friends—a few I know will be in my life for the long haul, a few I truly believe will see my children and grandchildren grow. Mike's family is the most incredible group of people I have ever known, and there is not a day I don't feel downright undeserving to be married into this loving, loud group.

But my own mother—my sweet, kind, giving, warm mother—is the one person who loves me completely, unconditionally, with no pretenses, no expectations.

If you have met her—or if you will ever be lucky enough to meet her—you will understand, it will become so clear, why I want my own child.

I want the chance to love another person the way I have always been loved.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

And thanks for buying me a pair of shoes today, on your day. And thanks for making me laugh by saying, after you bought them, "Now, sweetie, I want to see these on your blog, OK?"

So, here they are, a picture stolen from someone's eBay site since that was the only place on the Internet the shoes could be found:

Let's Just Say I'm Probably Not The Only One Who Still Remembers

Do you want to know the most humiliated I've ever been? It was sometime in June of 2004, and it was on a day I was spending with Mike—my then-boyfriend—his sister and her husband and MIKE'S PARENTS. Let me repeat: the most embarrassed I have ever been—in my life—was in front of my now-in-laws.

Years ago (almost four, to be exact), Mike and I drove to New Braunfels to spend the weekend with his sister, her husband and his parents. New Braunfels is home to the biggest water park in Texas and one of the best water parks in the nation—Schlitterbahn—and we decided to spend the Saturday of our visit there. Although I had already spent a good amount of time with Mike's family, it was a relatively new relationship, so I was still in try-to-impress mode.

We were nearing the end of our day at Schlitterbahn, exhausted from being thrown down chutes and splashed in the face with about eighty gallons of water when Mike—adventurous man that he is—suggested we all take a turn on this interesting-looking surfing ride called Boogie Bahn. Now, if you've never been to Schlitterbahn, this is going to be a tad hard to explain because that link takes you to a picture of a girl on top of a surfboard SMILING and that's not at all accurate. Let me try though: there is this ride—The Boogie Bahn—and you begin elevated on a platform, with a rubber surfboard-type-thing in your hand. You get the go-ahead from the bored-out-his-mind lifeguard (just wait lifeguard! things are about to pick up!), and you sort of slide down into this big pool of water where waves are simulated. If you do it just right (as in, IF YOU EFFING KNOW HOW TO SURF), you hop up and ride the wives for a bit and then glide into a much larger pool of water that feeds into a communal swimming area. If you don't do it just right (if you, say, HAVE NEVER SURFED—NOT ONCE—IN YOUR WHOLE LIFE), you sort of awkwardly slide down into the wave-simulating part of the ride and all hell breaks loose. You instantly lose your board and you fall face first into the water and right before you begin to drown, the ride sort of sucks you up—backwards!—onto another slide, where you are taken into the communal swimming area a different way—down that long slide.

Before I go on, I want it documented that I did not want to go on this ride at all. There was a long line of people but in addition to the line there were bleachers for spectators. This ride had SPECTATORS, people. Mike wanted all six of us to go on it together, though. Most of you have never met Mike (if you have, feel free to support my claim here), but Mike likes to do things. Mike is not a spectator. Mike is a tryer-outer and an experimenter and a hey-why-not-er. But more than that, more than all of those things, Mike is the kind of guy who likes to see his girlfriend try things too. He likes a girl with a little guts, a girl who takes a few risks, someone with the ability to put herself out there. (Just this past weekend when we were in San Antonio at a carnival, I went on this crazy, spinning, gut-turning, dizzying ride which I actually happened to love, but it was also a ride not many other people wanted to go on. Mike loved that I rode that ride.) And back in June of 2004, he really wanted me to take a stab at The Boogie Bahn. Because I wanted this man—and this man's family—to think of me as a total badass, I said OK. RELUCTANTLY SAID OK, I WANT IT NOTED.

But I would not go first.

And that decision—to go after Mike's parents and Mike, even—was the best decision I have ever made, even better than the decision to try champagne for the first time.

As the line snaked onward and people got on, one-by-one, I noticed an awkward, unfortunate trend happening. If you didn't master the surfing immediately and you lost your board and got sucked up backwards—and you were a female—the amount of force and sucking and water blasting inevitably made your bathing suit top creep up or to the side or down. This was a horrible side effect of the ride but one that totally clarified the bleachers.

I tightened my suit every few seconds, as we inched closer to the front of the line, and I kept repeating to myself, in my head: Must get up on the surfboard, must not fall. When it was my turn, and after a few more repeated prayers, I went for it.

And. Um. It didn't go so well.

I lost my board, yes, and I fell face first into the water, and I definitely thought I was going to drown right when the ride sucked me up and backwards and then, RIGHT THEN, is when things went from bad to ... well ... much worse. See, I lost my entire bathing suit. Top and bottom. The (once bored) lifeguard snapped to attention rather quickly, I must admit, and he managed to grab me with one hand while grabbing my bathing suit bottoms with his other hand. My bathing suit was not on my body. IT WAS IN HIS HAND. (My top had fallen off, as well, but somehow by the grace of God and karma and positive thinking, I had managed to grab it myself.) So, let me sum it up: I was naked. IN FRONT OF SPECTATORS. And in front of my future sister-in-law.

I got everything back on in record time, and when the slide spit me out into the pool, I swam over to Mike who missed all of it because of how the ride is set up. I whispered to him: "Baby, my swimsuit came off. I just flashed everyone."

He put his arm around me and said, "Oh, I'm sure no-one noticed. It couldn't have been that bad."

About twenty seconds later my brother-in-law came sliding down after me and said, "Hey, thanks for that." And Richelle came after him and was STILL LAUGHING.

From then on, at every family function, on every family vacation, every time we're just eating dinner together, someone manages to work in something along the lines of: "Now, Jennie, we are having dessert but you don't have to get naked."

It's funny now, years and years later. I have even laughed a little bit while writing this. But back then, when a lifeguard had to grab me—naked!—and then had to hand me the bottoms of my bathing suit, I could only think one thing:

Should I buy him dinner now?

::

And, aren't you just incredibly glad Mike and I ended up getting married? I would totally have been that girl he dated who got naked that one time. WHO WANTS TO BE THAT GIRL?

You Know, He Does Rock

Mike read this blog, from yesterday, and he scowled a bit when he came home, reminding me there were vital parts of the story missing. Parts like: he does do the dishes an awful lot (although, come on baby, definitely not more than me) and he also does other things such as picking up after me more than he ever thought he would have to and listening to me lament about Veronica Mars a solid YEAR after the show was canceled. (There's a cruise! This November! Who's with me?) But you know what I love about Mike, what I love so much it stuns me sometimes? He supports this site regardless of what I write. He's not a blathering idiot, unable to filter his thoughts like I am. He doesn't verbally vomit all over THE INTERNET like I tend to do, and yet he is still proud of this site, proud of what I write. He doesn't necessarily understand it, no, but he loves me all the same.

So, anyway, I woke up this morning to this note on our chalkboard:

(I imagine the other nine are coming.)

AND! As if that wasn't enough, I arrived to work this morning (early! look at me!), to these:

They are my favorite flower—a lavender rose—but even better, with pretty pinkish tips. They aren't from Mike, though. Molly, actually. She sent them for Mother's Day (clever little girl, stealing Dad's credit card to send her Mama pretty flowers). I gave her TWO treats when I got home today.

She was hoping for three, though. Right, baby girl?

(Mama, could you turn the flash off next time and maybe, you know, GET OUT OF MY FACE?)

As you can imagine, my Thursday was complete even before The Office came on. Mike isn't romantic. He just isn't. He doesn't write poems or send love letters or sweep me off my feet on a consistent basis. What he is, though, is thoughtful and sincere and genuine. And he does these random, wonderful things that help me stand a bit straighter, a bit stronger on my own. He's also adorable, which doesn't hurt things. But best of all? I get to keep him.

::

"You give me a quiet mind, and I love you." —Blue October