and then there were four…

My newest quest is to eschew all store-bought breakfast items (just things like toaster pastries, cereal bars and granola bars–I still love a bowl of cereal!) and make my own. My reasons for this are that the girls LOVE that kind of stuff, but, because of my desire to give them healthy alternatives it can be a bit pricey to buy the organic, natural kind and I love to save money. Plus, even though what we buy is natural and healthy, nothing beats homemade!

I’ve started small, with muffins, and then realized that the girls really enjoyed a good mini muffin, so I just started converting all of my recipes into mini-muffin form. I’ve done this with my Chocolate Chip Banana Muffins, as well as many of the recipes in the Deceptively Delicious cookbook my mom gave me for Christmas (Believe it or not, there are some AWESOME recipes in that book–the girls loved the PB & Banana muffins).

Although we love sweet potatoes, especially my famous Sweet Potato & Apple crockpot recipe, sometimes we need help with the leftovers (because, how many nights in a week can you eat them?) so I started hunting for a mini muffin recipe that would allow me to use my leftovers. I found this one but didn’t want to use walnuts or raisins so I ultimately bastardized it and made it my own.

The final verdict is out, as my taste testers will be trying them tomorrow morning, but I found them tasty. Not quite as good as my blueberry ones, but still pretty darn good.

So, here is my version:

Sweet Potato & Apple Mini Muffins

2 cups of whole-wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon (plus more for the topping)
3 tablespoons of applesauce (or if you don’t want to be uber-healthy, you can use the canola oil)
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar (I used dark because that’s what I had)
1 large egg
1 large egg white
1 1/2 cups mashed sweet potatoes
1/2 cup milk (I used 2%)
1 3/4 cups chopped, peeled baking apples (I used Fuji apples)
1/4 cup of wheat germ (can be omitted, I just wanted to try it out–couldn’t taste it!)

Your cast of characters:

1.) Preheat oven to 400 degrees F

2.)Mix the flour, baking powder and cinnamon in a bowl; set aside

3.) In another bowl, mix together applesauce (or oil), brown sugar, egg, egg white, mashed sweet potatoes and milk.

4.) Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and add sweet potato mixture, stirring until moistened.

Do not over-mix!

5.) Peel, Core & Chop your applesNext time I will be mincing my apples since I made these mini muffins, the apple chunks turned out a bit big for my liking.

6.) Fold in the apples

7.) Spoon batter into greased (mini) muffin tins. Fill them pretty full. My first batch were a bit puny because
I only filled half-way.

8.) Mix a little cinnamon and sugar together and sprinkle on top of the mini muffins for a little extra crunch.

9.) Bake at 400 degrees F for roughly 10-12 minutes for mini muffins, or about 20-25 minutes for regular-sized muffins.

10.) EAT!

Super yummy!

Enjoy!

Yesterday I woke up with really bad muscle pain in my right side. It wasn’t at the incision site, but near it–it got to be a bit unbearable, and it had me worried.

“I don’t want to ignore something big, but I don’t want to be a worrywart about a muscle spasm either.” I said to Bill.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re worried about, it’s not like you have an appendix any more, so you’ll be fine.” Bill looked at me, grinning. “You’ll probably do more harm worrying about it than anything else.”

Bill obviously forgot who he was dealing with, the queen of worry.

I mean, what if it was my liver? Or my gallbladder? or some other internal organ that I didn’t know about? EVEN THOUGH the pain was muscular and definitely not internal, I still worried. I went to bed and tried to sleep on my back the whole night.

I woke up and the pain is almost (*almost*) all gone.

I hate it when he’s right.

This week, as a part of my appendectomy recovery process, I had two follow-up appointments with two different doctors; the surgeon who operated on me, and my general practitioner who was a part of the whole process as well (I believe he is also a surgeon, but I am not 100% sure).

My first appointment was on Monday with the surgeon. I had met him in the hospital after the surgery and he was nice enough, but there was a nurse in the room with him when he came to talk to me.

So, I went to my appointment and the surgeon came into the room, solo, to remove my sutures. He had me lay down on the table and removed the sutures; all was normal. Normal until he tapped my stomach and said “you need to get rid of this.” and followed up with comments on how I just needed to stop “eating cookies and candies and cakes” and basically made it sound like I was a pretty girl…BUT.

I told him I knew how to lose weight, I had done it before and I was working on shedding weight from back to back pregnancies, but it had been harder this go round. He smiled, and said “well you can do it”, and that I needed to come see him when “(I) get skinny again”.

Now I am about to be BRUTALLY honest with you, and it is something I am really sensitive about, but I want to give you an idea of what we are dealing with.

I will be the first to admit that I have extra weight to lose. I’m still carrying about 20 pounds of baby weight from both pregnancies. After Bill and I got married I gained a little weight (about 20 pounds). That’s 40 pounds. Truth be told, I should probably lose about 10 pounds on top of that. So a solid 50. Seeing as how I lost over 70 in college I do not find 50 to be a daunting number. But it takes time and it has taken me longer this go-round than before. It’s definitely frustrating. However, I tend to carry all of my weight in my stomach area, and I’ve NEVER had a flat stomach. NEVER (okay, maybe as a little kid but even that was fleeting). Even when I was at my smallest weight still had more than an inch of pinch, but I looked good and felt great so I tried to be okay with it (I’m not sure if I ever was, but that’s a different story for a different day).

Needless to say when I left the office (after he once again said to come see him again if I needed ANYTHING), I was in tears. I went home and obsessed about it all day, much to the chagrin (and outrage) of my friends, family, and everyone else on Facebook. But I couldn’t let it go and finally I realized Bill loved me for who I was and I should start loving myself for who I was and stop giving myself such a hard time about what one dickhead said to me.

Today, I went to my general practitioner, someone I have been seeing since we moved here. He’s a great doctor, I just had not seen him since before I became pregnant with Olivia. When I got into the examination room the nurse came in. I would like to note that this woman was gorgeous, she reminded me of  Michaela Conlin. She had long dark hair, tall (an inch or so taller than me, and I’m 5’8) an athletic build (not too thin, not too big, but I am afraid to say “average” because who knows what that means anymore?)  She was probably only a bit smaller than I was at my smallest weight (this is important, I promise). She is the size I strive to be.

I told her everything I have just told you about the other surgeon, and she was APPALLED. She kept saying “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that, that was totally uncalled for and not something he had any right to say, you are perfect and the baby weight will come off soon enough. She then told me what had worked for her (LOTS of water and an apple before each meal) and looked so concerned for me. She then mentioned how the name of the surgeon sounded familiar and she couldn’t put her finger on it but she THOUGHT he might be the same surgeon who came on to her when she was at the hospital to give birth to her child. Which would explain A LOT. Maybe he had a type?

I’m not sure what she told the doctor, but he didn’t mention what I said to her, so I can assume that he had no clue as to what went down. My doctor was terrific and told me everything looked great and that we just needed to monitor my gallstones. He told me that most people lost about ten pounds with an appendectomy, (so I have about three to go? ha!). After I joked about how it was the best diet ever and I just hoped to keep up the momentum since I could only eat about 3 ounces at a time. He then told me to take it one day at a time, to not expect more than one pound a week, and to eat small meals and do light exercise until I healed completely (all things I knew, but helpful to hear it from an actual doctor instead of the internet). I left feeling happy and excited instead of depressed and in tears.

YES doctors should discuss weight with their patients if it is a problem, BUT they should make sure they are coming from a medical standpoint. Had a doctor done tests and found that my weight was a problem to my health, I would have been okay discussing it, however since the first doctor made it about how I looked it was TOTALLY uncalled for and not based in fact at all, because there is no one size fits all to health and weight. Since my regular doctor did not comment on it until I mentioned it and then he only gave me points, tips and encouragement, it made me feel comfortable and safe. I also no longer feel like I am an unhealthy slob, because he assured me I was fine and healthy from everything he could tell from my records, vital stats, etc.

Bedside manner DOES matter.

Please note: if you do not like reading about medical situations, this post may not be for you. It’s full of wounds, drugs, and organ removal!

I’m currently recuperating from an emergency appendectomy that happened last Tuesday. It was my first surgery, and I don’t wish the pain of acute appendicitis on anyone. Seriously, it was worse than childbirth (in my opinion), because at least with contractions you get some relief between bursts of pain. This shit just didn’t stop.

We celebrated Miss Sophia’s 2nd birthday a week ago (I’ll update and post photos and whatnot of our Yo Gabba Gabba extravaganza later this week, hopefully). And I just assumed the gas and indigestion I had been having was due to eating bacon wrapped pineapple bites,  little smokies in a blanket and other crap (but DELICIOUS) party foods. So I shook it off and spent most of Sunday in bed, not eating. Monday I spent the day a bit gassy, but, again, just assumed I was dealing with the worst gas pains in my life (did a LOT of farting and burping, ya’ll).

By Tuesday morning I woke up with intense gas pains and a sharp pain in the lower right side of my stomach. It was not too sharp at first, and it only flared up when I moved or sat down. Bill went to work and told me to call the doctor if it felt as bad as I was describing. So I did. I finally called my doctor, which I never do because I never want to be a bother, and I would rather sit and complain about the pain I am in instead of finding out what the problem is (yeah, I know). My doctor wouldn’t be in until 1:30, so Bill said he would come home early to take me and all would be well after a big antacid or something.

Then it all went terribly wrong.

As I was describing the pain to my mom and sitting down on the couch, I started crying at the intense sharp pain that ripped through my lower right side. My mom told me to call the office back RIGHT NOW and the office instructed me to go to the ER RIGHT NOW so Bill rushed home and his dad rushed over to stay with the girls, frantically telling me he was calling the ambulance because I was curled up in a ball moaning in agony. I drug myself to the bathroom to cry into the toilet when the pain got too bad, because I made the mistake of crying out in front of the girls earlier, which scared them and caused them to cry. Putting on your Poker Face for your kids is a part of the job sometimes.

After an extremely bumpy ride (of COURSE there was road construction going on on the streets Bill had to drive to get me to the hospital) and Bill telling me to breathe A LOT (um, I could finally cry without worrying about upsetting one of my children–suffice it to say I took full advantage of that, poor Bill), we made it to the ER. They whisked me back pretty quickly (under 10 minutes) because I was the only person hunched over in agony waiting to be seen. After taking my vitals, and getting my info they got me to undress and lay on a bed. After talking to an extremely nice doctor I was given miraculous pain medication. It was a narcotic of some sort and my pain became super manageable. It wasn’t gone completely, but I wasn’t screaming out in pain every few moments–it was heavenly and I became loopy and started pointing and saying nonsensical things, very reminiscent to how I act when drunk, fyi.

I was informed that they had to take me upstairs to have a CAT scan done, to make sure it was my appendix and nothing else (because while everything pointed to appendix they wanted to be sure, which of course is what they are SUPPOSED to do).

Most people will tell you that a CAT scan is pretty noninvasive and no big deal. Before this experience, I would agree, from everything I had heard. However, when they are checking to find out what is going wrong in your stomach they make this noninvasive experience become one of the most uncomfortable and invasive medical experiences of my life. If you’re squeamish you may not want to read the next sentence or two: They put a huge tube that is attached to a bag that I can only describe as twice as big as a normal IV bag (fuzzy memory, perhaps?) into your ass and fill your colon full of water, which they leave there while they run the damn CAT machine. THEN they tell you to lie still and to not push while they take the tube out of your ass, along with the water. CAT scan and colon cleaning, all in one. Not my finest hour, let me tell you.

So, the results come in and it turns out I have gallstones AND acute appendicitis. They weren’t 100% positive about any of it though and thought it could be either: A.) Acute Appendicitis B.)Gallbladder issues C.) Colon issues. So they were just going to schedule an emergency appendectomy and if it turned out that the other things needed to be addressed they would do it then.

Great. I’ve never had surgery before, and now I had to have surgery THAT DAY? I know it is a very commonplace surgery, I know that they do thousands each year, but it was my first surgery and the idea of going under anesthesia scared the shit out of me. Still does.

They wheel me into surgery and the last thing I remember was staring up at the big light (that was turned off) you always see on TV when people are about to go under (How cliche!) and hearing the anesthesiologist say they were going to give me something to relax me. Next thing I know, I am fuzzily waking up to a nurse standing over me and talking about how I was coming out of it in the recovery room. I looked at the clock and it was almost three hours later.

Definitely one of the more bizarre experiences of my life. Luckily it was ONLY my appendix and everything else was fine.

After surgery I was incredibly loopy and it was at this point I started telling random nurses how pretty they were (but, oddly, only the pretty ones–I specifically remember feeling guilty when I saw a less attractive one and didn’t tell her she was pretty) and joking with the orderly how he was going to find out all my secrets because I was so out of it, but the only big secrets I had were family recipes. (HIGH-LARIOUS, I tell ya!)

Bill was my rock, and he stayed throughout the entire surgery, only leaving to check on the girls and bring me back my laptop (among other things) after I had been settled into my room.

I slept really well, until I oddly woke up at 3 am and felt refreshed and like I had had 12 hours of sleep. I was told this was a result of the anesthesia. I did this for three days after. I had a liquid diet (I think I consumed 200 calories in 36 hours) and was in constant pain, so they gave me morphine, which is great while you are using, but the comedown is a bitch (oh the headaches). I thought they were going to release me after 24 hours, but my white count was too high and I was running a fever. As much as I wanted to go home, the quiet sleep and constant nursing care was very nice. (I can’t say enough about how amazing nurses are!) But after 48 hours I was done, and they finally felt confident to release me.

So here I am, a week after having surgery, my sutures were removed yesterday. I also sent Bill back to work yesterday, and have been slowly getting back to ‘normal’. Every day it gets a little easier, but I am extremely tired after doing small tasks and don’t do much in the heavy lifting arena. I picked Sophia up today (which was okay-ed by the doctor) and tried to put her up on my hip. I can pick her up. I can’t hold her on my right side yet. Sometimes it is the little things that creep up and frustrate me. I am also still unable to eat more than about 3 ounces of food at a time or I get really sick to my stomach. I also need to work on my lung capacity, as every deep breath I take causes soreness on my right side. They gave me this little do-hickey to help with that, which I should probably start using, huh?

Since I always try to look on the bright side, this has been an excellent boost to my stagnant weight loss, as I lost over six pounds in the past week. Here’s hoping I can coast on that momentum and keep it up. Let’s also hope I can get a clear answer on why one of my sutures were removed, yet I still have a weird open wound going on. It’s kind of gross, but since it’s not bleeding I figure it can wait until my follow-up tomorrow.

Both girls were happily drawing on Friday, so I told them to make a special drawing for Father’s Day and we would put it away and surprise Bill on Sunday. I told them to not tell him about it, so he would have a fun surprise.

When Bill came home he was asking the girls about their day, and I went into the bedroom to get something. Bill came in a few minutes later, grinning and trying to stifle his laughter.

“Olivia said that her and Sophia drew me a picture but you put it away and said that it was going to be a surprise and I couldn’t see it yet.” he was dying with laughter at this point.

The girls and I let Bill sleep in on Sunday, and Olivia decided that Daddy needed donuts for a special breakfast. Since I have yet to master the art of making a doughnut, we headed out and got a dozen of assorted. After we ate, I took the girls out to run a few errands and Bill was given uninterrupted videogaming time for two hours. To keep her occupied I gave Olivia the shopping list to help me make sure we had gotten everything.

“Mama, what are Tam-poons?” She asked me, reading my list.

“Uh…they are something mama needs to get.”

“But, what are they?” She questioned.

“Um…I promise I’ll explain to you what they are someday, but right now we need to check out and get home.”

Sometimes, I forget that my 3 1/2 year old can read.

We all snuggled in our big King sized bed and watched (most of) Toy Story 2, ate popcorn and enjoyed being together.

During dinner, a shirtless Sophia proclaimed “I’m wearing my nay-kid shirt!” and started anthropomorphizing her spaghetti noodles. “Ooh, I want to go to the party in Sophia’s tummy, but I’m so scared!” She kept us laughing through dinner.

All-in-all I think Bill had a very good day.

He deserved it. He’s the best daddy to those wonderfully goofy girls of ours.

Today Olivia was looking at my face and she said “I’m getting those” and started swirling her finger around near my face.

“You’re getting what, baby?” I asked her.

“Those” (more finger swirling in the general direction of my chin).

Then it hit me. I’m in the midst of a PMS breakout and my chin has gotten the zitty end of the deal.

“My bumps?” I asked her.

“Yeah, I’m getting those!”

“No baby, you’re not getting bumps, your face is smooth and you have a long time before you need to worry about bumps.”

“But I’m getting them! SEE?” And she proceeds to lift her nightgown and show me her kneecaps, which had a few bumps and bug bites on them.

Later today I took the girls outside to play and while they were occupied in the sandbox I took the opportunity to stalk bugs to photograph (For Pioneer Woman’s current Photography Assignment) and I suddenly hear Sophia saying “NOOOOOO NOOOO NOOO” so of course I practically drop my camera to run over and see what the heck is going on. I see her, covered, in sand. In her hair, her clothes, she’s spitting it out of her mouth, it’s mixed in with her (still) snotty nose.

“WHAT IN THE WORLD?” I asked. “Olivia did you throw sand on your sister?”

Of course, she did not want to admit to it, but I finally said “Olivia, I want you to always tell the truth, because if you tell a lie and I figure it out, I’m going to be more upset than if you tell me the truth right away.”

“Okay, I did. I threw sand on Sophia.”

I cleaned poor Sophia off, and as I am doing it I look at Olivia and sternly say “This is MEAN. You are not a mean girl, but you did a mean thing that I do not like.” Then I went on to tell her we were going to go inside since she didn’t know how to behave and she was not allowed to watch any television for the rest of the day.

Of course, this made her cry and get upset. I explained that one of the biggest rules we have is that we never throw sand, because it could hurt and it is not nice. I told her if she did something like that at preschool to one of her friends, she would get into trouble and probably have to come home. I have no idea what would happen, but we’ve started trying to put her misdeeds into “when you start preschool” terms, so she knows what will be expected of her. This made her cry, which made my heart ache, (yes, I am an emotional pushover sometimes), so I told her how much I loved her and knew she was a sweet girl, but she had to apologize to Sophia and never ever do it again. She apologized and I told her if she did it again we were going to throw the sandbox away.

“But…the sandbox won’t fit in the trashcan!” She said very concerned.

Biting my lip, I looked at her and said “I’ll throw the sand away and then give the sandbox to someone else who can use it properly and not throw sand!”

That seemed to satisfy her.

• Yesterday, I was working out with my Wii fit plus “trainer” and the girls were working out with me (they really enjoy ‘exercises’). The trainer likes to shout out words of encouragement throughout your workout. Suddenly I hear Sophia’s little voice shout out (a little congested one, I might add, since she has been sick recently and her nose is still runny) “I’m toning my body! I’m doing it!”
• Last night, Olivia came out of her room, dragging her monkey, Sandwich, behind her. “Um, Daddy…I need to tell you something.” Seeing as how it was nearing 10 p.m., we were growing weary of her stall tactics, but ever the good daddy, Bill asked her what was wrong. “I have a problem. Sandwich is allergic to beds!” Bill stifled his laughter and said “No, he isn’t! Sandwich LOVES your bed.” And then Olivia said “No, he really is allergic, see? And proceeded to “sneeze” for Sandwich, proving that he, indeed, was allergic to beds.
• Sophia had a cold last week and she is still very congested and has a runny nose…Yesterday I said “Oh, you’re Miss PrissPot, aren’t you?” She looked at me, indignantly and said “I NOT PISS-POT! I SO-FEE-UH!”
• Olivia has taken to making a “pfft” sound whenever we say or do something that she thinks is wrong or silly. Ex: Last night I made pancakes and bacon for dinner. We also had yogurt and bananas. I told the girls I was going to have yogurt on top of my pancakes instead of syrup. (BTW: YUM) Olivia looked at me, “Pfft”ed and said “That’s not right” and shook her head at me. We’ve had to enact a “no Pffting rule at the table.” We are attempting to eradicate the pffting altogether. Wish us luck.
• Sophia, on the other hand, has taken to saying “Ummm-hmmm” and “Uh-uh” instead of “yes and no”. We have been responding with “use words, I do not understand these sounds” or something similar. The other morning, during breakfast, Olivia asked Sophia a question and got the standard “Ummm-hmmm” from Sophia. Suddenly I heard Olivia say, “Don’t you UMMM-HMMM ME!” Bill and I had to hold each other up to prevent us from falling over with laughter. Then I had to wonder where she heard that from, because we do try to be good parents and use constructive ways to correct them when they say things they shouldn’t. I am assuming I said it to Bill jokingly, or have, indeed slipped up and said it to her in the past.
• For the past month, both girls have been obsessed with Wall-E and walk around the house saying “Waaaaaaahhhh-Leeeeee” and “Eeee–Vhuuuuu” in similar voices to those the robots use. It never fails to amuse.

I became obsessed with Starbucks’ Chocolate Chip Banana Bread.

Obsessed.

So, in order to avoid going into massive debt, I researched and found a recipe.

Of course, as I do with every recipe, I changed some stuff around. Instead of a cup of white sugar, I used 3/4 a cup of brown sugar, and 1/2 a cup of white sugar (I know, it equals more sugar than called for, but trust me). I also used five small bananas instead of three (and mine were VERY ripe) and I added a tablespoon of vanilla extract. Also, I used mini chocolate chips.

So, with that out of the way, on to the pictures:

The cast of characters (that gross looking stuff in the ziploc bag are frozen bananas)

Well hello there, sexy.

What it will look like when you are done Mixa-Mixa-Mixa-ing.

After you’ve finished baka-baka-baking in the oven. It says to bake for an hour. I can say that if you use a bundt pan, you should only bake for 45 minutes. However, just finished baking another loaf in a bread pan…and you’re going to need the whole hour.

And now try not to eat the whole pan.

Seriously. Yum.

This Saturday marks Bill and my 6 year wedding anniversary. March 29th of this year marked 12 years I have loved him. While there were a few years apart before we got married (growing pains, I like to think of them), I never stopped loving him and I know he never stopped loving me. We always remained friends during that time, so I don’t like to split hairs.

As soon as I open my mouth, most people ask me where I’m from, and when I explain the South, they want to know how I ended up here. Usually I tell them I came out here for college (which is true), and that’s that. But when I start to become friends with someone, the inevitable question comes out: “How did you and Bill meet?”. So I’m here to tell our story, internets:

The short answer is: We met online.

In 1998 chat rooms were all the rage, and as far as I know, online dating sites were not at all common. I’m sure there were some, but for me, my spare time online was spent in a general purpose chat room. I met lots of interesting people. I was 16 and I had dated one boy for two months the year earlier. Looking back I think I wanted that escape and promise of companionship with someone who was unlike anyone I had ever met before.

Bill and I met when he changed his screen name to be a match to mine (ie: if I was Peanut Butter, he was Jelly) and kind of jokingly followed me around the chat room (If you are familiar with how chat rooms worked back in the day, you can follow how he did this). He was annoying, at first (oh the jokes). Finally we exchanged ICQ numbers (remember ICQ?) and started private messaging and spent long evenings chatting, sent long emails, and I remember thinking “if only he lived closer” because I was falling hard and didn’t think there was a possibility of it ever being anything more than a friendship. This went on for a few months, until he finally asked for my phone number (which is serious business as national cell phone plans were unheard of back in the day).

He called me at midnight on March 29th, 1998 (three days after my 17th birthday). We talked until the sun came up the next morning. I wrote in my journal later that day: “I just spoke to the man I’m going to marry…” I didn’t know how it was going to happen, but I knew. Thus the beginning of our long distance relationship that lasted until I was accepted to college in his state and moved out here in August of 1999. A few caveats: Yes we had photos of each other and YES we met in person before I decided to move 3000 miles away from my home.

After breaking up and getting back together a few times in college, Bill and I moved in together for good in the beginning of 2003. We’ve been together ever since, making it legal on May 8, 2004.

I can say, without a doubt, that the best thing he ever did for me was break up with me when we were in college. It made me realize I could do anything on my own and that I needed no one to survive. I learned to rely on myself. But I can also say that Bill NEVER let me down. If I ever needed anything he was always there for me, even when he wasn’t my boyfriend. He gave me many rides to the grocery store (I was carless my first two years here), and gave me emotional support. He’s the only man in my life who has always been there for me. I can never thank him enough for that.

Bill is my best friend. I say that all the time, but there really is no one who knows me the way he does. There is no one I would rather spend my time with, and no one else I could ever imagine spending the rest of my days with. If there is such a thing as someone being your “other half” he is that embodiment for me.

That may be very cliché and sappy for some, but I can’t thank him enough for just understanding me. I never have to be anything but myself. I never have to pretend with him, which is an amazing gift to have in a person. He loves me for who I am, supports me in all my endeavors and is my cheering section in whatever I am trying to accomplish. He often anticipates what I need, even if it is something as simple as bringing me a diet coke when I’ve had a particularly trying day. He is level-headed where I am not, calm when I am a mess and still makes me laugh every day.

He and I have created the most amazing little people and I will never ever be able to thank him enough for that. He is an amazing daddy to our girls, and he shows me daily what the true definition of “daddy” is– what a daddy should be. Something I yearned for as a child, I get to see every day and if it took me not having one for my girls to have an amazing one, it is a loss I will celebrate. He is there for his girls, and is never too busy or tired for them.

He’s my hero for going to work every day so that I can be a stay-at-home mama. I don’t have enough words to tell you what he means to me. I would do anything to make him happy, and I only hope I am half the partner to him that he is to me.

He’s my heart…always. Happy Anniversary Bill, I love you to the moon and back.

Last weekend Bill and I were invited out to dinner and drinks to help celebrate his younger brother’s 29th birthday. We were fortunate enough that Bill’s mom was able to drive down and take care of the girls for the evening.

As we were going to a fancier locale for drinks after dinner, Bill wore a nice pair of dress pants and a button down fancy dress shirt and nice shiny dress shoes. I wore a maxi dress (are those still “in”?) and a wedge sandals with a cute little cardigan.

We looked nice.

Bill finished dressing before I did and walked out to the dining room where the girls were eating dinner. I suddenly hear Olivia burst into hilarious laughter.

“Daddy, you’re wearing funny clothes!” She giggled.

“No Olivia, Daddy looks handsome!” My mother-in-law encouraged.

Olivia, still giggling, states: “Daddy, you’re handsome, but you’ve got funny clothes on!”

I think we need to get out more.