Five years ago today, I walked down the aisle toward a handsome man in Peter Parker glasses and a black tuxedo. Much of the day is a blur in my memory, but that doesn't matter much.
There are a lot of clear memories since that day to make up for it.
Like waking up and seeing him there next to me. Every day!
Or the look on his face when there was a plus sign on the pregnancy test.
Or the way he handled our first real argument, not letting me pout/blame/shout/walk away and instead made me talk until we found resolution.
Or how he battled against worry when he was finishing his comps. He sought counsel, prayed, unpacked his feelings, got to work, and got through it. And on the other side? I can see how his faith grew, because worry has a much smaller place in our lives now.
Or when he jumps in to help with housework that seems to have suffocated me. (Is there anything sexier than a man washing dishes?)
Or when I came home right at the girls' bedtime one night and got to overhear Papa's sweet praying, two little loves in his lap.
Or how he still loves to escape the mundane things of life by strolling the grocery store.
Or every time his eyes light up at the dinner table. Because home-cooked food is this man's love language (and sometimes junk food, too).
In less that two weeks, he'll defend his thesis and graduate. Then he'll be Dr. Jorgenson and I will be the proudest woman in this whole darn state. He has worked hard, loved much, and given of himself beyond anything I could have asked for.
It's premature to use your new title, but I must. Dr. Jorgenson, thank you for these five years of learning, living, and loving. No one could have done it better. Here's to a million more. I love you.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
The brou-ha-ha surrounding the TV show Breaking Bad has died down a bit since it ended a few months ago, but if you aren't familiar with it, it's a show about a high school chem teacher who develops cancer and, facing steep bills for chemo, starts making and selling meth. Even when he turns out to be cancer-free, he continues in the drug trade because he enjoys it.
I'm squeamish and we have high standards, so Professor and I only made it through a few episodes on Netflix before we abandoned the show.
A short time later, I read an article about a new method for making meth: it's new, it's portable, it's...meth you can make anywhere! With a new, easier process, you can make meth in a bathroom! A closet! The trunk of your car!
I became fully convinced that every unsavory character on my at-times-unsavory street was making meth. And maybe even some of the not-unsavory ones, because, hey, if a high school chemistry teacher is doing it...
One morning a while back, Zaboo woke up at 5am. I quickly grabbed her and put her in our bed so that she didn't wake up her sister. She talked, giggled, tried to shove her pacifier in my mouth, then fell into a deep, snore-filled sleep.1 I lay on my sliver of bed (why do babies hog all the room?), debating whether or not I should get up.
I didn't hear the door to our building open, but I heard some footsteps going up the stairs--not uncommon as our neighbors think "noise ordinances" exist in much the way unicorns do.
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM "OPEN UP, DEA!"
That definitely was uncommon. And not at all pertaining to unicorns.
It was definitely time for me to get up. I snuck to the living room and barely lifted one blind, just enough to peek out and play Nosy Neighbor.
Waaaaaay off to the left in front of my garage was a regular, local police SUV and two uniformed officers. An unmarked car pulled up silently in front of my door, a plainclothes officer2 at the wheel.
These dudes were stealthy.
While taking in the rather boring goings-on outside, I half-expected to hear a Cops-worthy fight ensue overhead: swearing, throwing things, plates crashing into walls. Instead, I heard (much louder) steps down and out the front door.
Through my slit in the blinds, I saw one-two-three-four DEA officers in full body armor escorting my neighbor to the unmarked car. He was handcuffed and cooperative. Honestly, the longest part of the procedure was watching all of the DEA guys pile into the clown car/Flying Ford Anglia from Harry Potter (only way to explain cramming them all in).
So, my first drug bust was kind of a dud. Hardly noteworthy. Later, I found out it was about cocaine dealing and this wasn't the guy's first arrest; we just happened to be traveling the first time around (though that one, I guess, was even less interesting because it was just regular ol' cops).
I never saw it coming. Nice guy. Always polite. Our kids play together sometimes. He even lent me baking powder when I was in the middle of making a cake and had no time to run to the store.
At least I think it was baking powder...
1 My husband insists they get this from me because he doesn't snore. I'm certain it's just one of those traits that skips a generation. I certainly don't snore. I never spent an entire night at camp thinking, "Gosh, whoever's snoring is driving me crazy," only to be told in the morning that I was the culprit. Nope, that never happened. Not once. ↩
2 But really I can only assume that, can't I? Maybe the DEA doesn't have much of an office 'round these parts and they just hired some rando. Still, I like to think it was a highly trained ninja type who could have stopped a perp with his pinkie if need be.↩