Then we give him his bath, wrestle him into his jammies (this kid seriously loves being unclothed), get as much milk into him as we can and then I pray the same prayer for him every night,
Thank you, Lord, for this gift. Help me to steward it well.
Last night, I put Simon down while N. let the dog out. As I walked downstairs after Simon fell asleep, I paused on the landing and looked out the window at my man. He was standing on the driveway smiling down at the dog. Just grinning ear-to-ear. I could tell by the way his shoulders bobbed up and down that he was giggling, too.
As creepy as it was, I just stood there and stared.
I love that smile.
I got all warm and giddy and cozy inside and I walked out the door planning to hug and kiss him and tell him how happy I was that we got married. Then we would be all lovey and smoochy and cuddle up and be cute. That was the plan.
But when I opened the door and N. turned around, he burst into a fit of giggles and yelled,
"Turk is eating poop out of his own butt!" And chuckled and chuckled and chuckled and pointed at the dog.
But if any of you know me well, then you also know that I'm a sucker for some good poo humor.
So I abandoned my plans for impromptu romance did the next best thing: stood outside with my man as we bent over from laughter with tears squeezing out of our eyes while Turk chased his behind in circles trying to finish his business.
Then we talked about it for hours afterward and fell asleep making up names for dishes with poop in them.
Truly, though, the last thing we said to each other was "poop nachos!" right before we both drifted off.
It ain't glamorous, people, but I've got a really blessed life. Really blessed.