Last week my husband turned 40.
To celebrate, we spent the weekend at the amazing 'Inn at Spanish Bay' on the Monterey Peninsula.
I should probably state for the record that this post is not sponsored in any way by 'The Inn at Spanish Bay'. I would also like to state for the record that if 'The Inn at Spanish Bay' would at any time LIKE to sponsor a blog post from me I am MORE THAN willing to listen and would, for instance, consider tattooing the phrase 'Inn at Spanish Bay' Forever! on my face permanently in exchange for a modest gift certificate.
I should probably state for the record that this post is not sponsored in any way by 'The Inn at Spanish Bay'. I would also like to state for the record that if 'The Inn at Spanish Bay' would at any time LIKE to sponsor a blog post from me I am MORE THAN willing to listen and would, for instance, consider tattooing the phrase 'Inn at Spanish Bay' Forever! on my face permanently in exchange for a modest gift certificate.
We had an absolutely fantastic time. We sipped cocktails DURING THE DAY! We snuggled as we watched the sunset. We lounged for long hours by the fireplace in our room. (Did I mention I will TATTOO MY FACE to get back there, 'Inn at Spanish Bay'? Reach out!) We had long talks -- and not about who forgot to pay which bill -- I mean about things like current events and, you know, the weather!!
IT WAS HEAVEN.
IT WAS HEAVEN.
At some point as we stared out towards the beach, drinks in hand, I turned to my husband and said with a sigh:
"I feel like this is the real us."
He nodded and said he knew what I meant.
He nodded and said he knew what I meant.
Come Sunday, however, it was time to pack away all that "us-ness" and head back to the realities of home.
And the realities -- let's just say they were real. The early morning "let's get up and get to school" routine was its usual fraught ordeal, and on top of that, on the Tuesday I returned I had a wisdom tooth removal that became horribly infected.
I'm not going to burden you with the specifics, but suffice it to say that the words "raging," "gauze packing," and "seepage" were all involved.
My husband spent the week taking care of me and all the kids. I spent the week staggering about in a medicated haze and trying to stop the kids from destroying our home during the hours when my husband was at work. A few nights after we got back we fell into to bed at 9pm -- exhausted from the events of the day -- only to hear sobs from our sons' room several hours later.
It turned out that some complaints of stomach trouble earlier in the evening from our middle child had resulted in an epic Midnight diaper blow-out.
David and I in an exhausted (and in my case drug-induced) stupor began to try to clean up the scene. He held my sleepy son and used an iPhone for light as I attacked the diaper area.
I'm not going to lie, there were some heated words:
"Hold the light steady! There's poop everywhere!"
"I'm trying but you're blocking the light with your head!"
"Oh for God's sakes! Where are the wipes?"
"You told me to put them in the diaper bag this morning!"
"Seriously? Of all the things I asked you to do you did that one!"
Seven or eight minutes into the process of wrestling with far-flung human waste, David and I gave up and started laughing at the absurdity of it all. When we'd finally cleared the debris, we met up at the bathroom sink, sighing as we doused each other in antibacterial soap. We giggled about how we can't wait to have all the kids out of diapers once and for all. We smiled about how cute the kids are when they are sleepily confused, and then we limped off to bed to start it all again the next morning.
As we lay together waiting to fall asleep my husband turned to me with a smile and said:
"You know, I feel like this is actually the real us."
I nodded and said I knew what he meant.
But I'm still saving up money for another getaway. It couldn't hurt to check in with that other couple every once in a while.
I'm not going to burden you with the specifics, but suffice it to say that the words "raging," "gauze packing," and "seepage" were all involved.
My husband spent the week taking care of me and all the kids. I spent the week staggering about in a medicated haze and trying to stop the kids from destroying our home during the hours when my husband was at work. A few nights after we got back we fell into to bed at 9pm -- exhausted from the events of the day -- only to hear sobs from our sons' room several hours later.
It turned out that some complaints of stomach trouble earlier in the evening from our middle child had resulted in an epic Midnight diaper blow-out.
David and I in an exhausted (and in my case drug-induced) stupor began to try to clean up the scene. He held my sleepy son and used an iPhone for light as I attacked the diaper area.
I'm not going to lie, there were some heated words:
"Hold the light steady! There's poop everywhere!"
"I'm trying but you're blocking the light with your head!"
"Oh for God's sakes! Where are the wipes?"
"You told me to put them in the diaper bag this morning!"
"Seriously? Of all the things I asked you to do you did that one!"
Seven or eight minutes into the process of wrestling with far-flung human waste, David and I gave up and started laughing at the absurdity of it all. When we'd finally cleared the debris, we met up at the bathroom sink, sighing as we doused each other in antibacterial soap. We giggled about how we can't wait to have all the kids out of diapers once and for all. We smiled about how cute the kids are when they are sleepily confused, and then we limped off to bed to start it all again the next morning.
As we lay together waiting to fall asleep my husband turned to me with a smile and said:
"You know, I feel like this is actually the real us."
I nodded and said I knew what he meant.
But I'm still saving up money for another getaway. It couldn't hurt to check in with that other couple every once in a while.
