My oldest son was born in the spring of 1998. When he was just four months old, his father gathered him in his arms, burrowed into the couch, and said, “Finally. Someone will watch the Olympics with me.” It didn’t matter what ass-backwards hour of the night that child woke up; his father was right there, bottle in one hand, remote control in the other.

I strongly encourage all you wives of athletes to time your pregnancies in accordance with the Olympic schedule.

My husband was a competitive swimmer for the majority of his life. When I say that he was a competitive swimmer, I don’t just mean that he liked to race. I mean that he was one of the best swimmers around when he was doing it. He flew all over the damn country to train. He was courted by god knows how many universities. He was contracted by the US to coach a swim team in South Korea. He almost, ALMOST, qualified for the Olympic team tryouts countless times. I have binder on top of binder full of newspaper clippings featuring him, and box on box of medals in my basement. He still holds records in his hometown swim club.

I was not a competitive swimmer growing up. I was not a competitive anything growing up, honestly. Last time I checked, proselytizing wasn’t was Olympic sport, but you never know. If speed-walking counts, maybe they’re open to other ideas. Proselytizing is way harder than speed walking anyway.

Needless to say, the Olympics mean different things to The Donor and I, but we are united in the fact that we are both totally useless around here for two weeks solid, every even year. It means something in our house, something more than just entertainment. It means possibilities, the almost.

The almost is the hardest thing in the world to let go, if you ask me.

He watches the Olympics and he critiques strokes, he admires speed that was unheard of 15 years ago when he was swimming; he, I think, takes a little bit of pride in his sport, because he feels like he was a part of all that, that it’s still his.

I watch it and I imagine every single one of my kids on that screen, on those starting blocks, on those balance beams. I dream of the legacies. My family has nothing but bad teeth and debt to pass from one generation to the next. Except my father, who is arguably the greatest guitarist you’ve never heard of, and my aunt, who did great things in science and then chopped her head off one fall day, so no one really remembers the accomplishments anymore, no one in my family has ever really done anything. No one excelled, no one sacrificed, no one dedicated themselves and pushed towards anything. THAT is not the legacy I want to pass down.

I’ve never seen my husband swim like he did back then, but I’ve seen him splash around in the pool from time to time, and I’ll tell you something; some people are just born to do things. Sometimes, it’s painfully obvious. I hope for my children that they find that thing, that one thing they’re amazing at. I would be thrilled if that one thing was math, or science, or auto repair, so long as it fulfills them, but in all honestly, I want it to be a sport. They are athletes. It’s in them. You don’t have the dad they do and not be an athlete. We both go to great lengths to never, ever push our kids, but deep deep down where they can’t see, I want it so badly for them, I can taste it.

So, for two weeks, I watch. I study technique, I look at form, I listen to strategy. I call my kids in from playing when the men get on the horse or the girls step up to the balance beams. I pull them into me when the guys climb up on their starting blocks and pull their goggles down, we scream together every time the USA gets a medal, and we scream even harder every time we shatter another world record.

Because, in my house, we’re doing it together, those people on the TV and us. In my house, in my heart, those Olympians are blazing trails that my kids will walk someday, too.

PS: If you made it through that, go read this. It’s much better.

When I was about 8 years old, I started having these nightmares. They were the ones you have when you’re still awake, just barely almost asleep. I dreamed that witches and ghouls and demons were flying around my bedroom. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I would then start to see knives coming straight for my face. The best part? I could totally feel them going into my eyes.

This is not an awesome way to be 8.

We were taught that, oh yes, demons and Satan do exist, but as long as you don’t give them audience in your head or home or heart, they had no power over you. As long as you, say, didn’t watch the news or read the newspaper, and as long as you filled your mind with prayer, they would be kept at bay.

I prayed a LOT before bed every night.

During the day, I had trouble with seeing sharp objects. Washing the forks became downright painful. If you kept a pencil in your ear, I had to turn the point away from me. Sharp edges in my peripheral vision were the worst. Instantly, they would be coming at me, even when I was wide awake, and then it was all with the piercing, stabbing pain.

I winced a lot. I squinted all the time. It got to the point where the edges of papers made me want to claw my eyeballs out.

When I was 10, two years into it, I told my mother.

She asked only one question: Do you have anything in this house from your grandmother? Well, yes in fact, I did have one thing. I had this stuffed Ziggy doll she’d bought for me at Virginia Beach. Two years ago. When I was 8.

My grandmother was a Baptist turned Christian Scientist turned Black Witch turned that Shirley McClain Ramtha crap. My aunt’s bedroom in her house had murals of hell on the walls. My gramma spent most of her days putting hexes on things,* channeling George Washington and trying to levitate the German Shepard. We were NEVER aloud in her house.

My mother made me destroy the Ziggy doll, and I never did have one of those dreams again. Problem solved. EXCELLENT deduction, mom. But I still couldn’t handle anything sharp. I figured it was just residual energy or something. I was a kook.

Fast forward 20 years. I’ve had kid three. My eyes still freaking hurt all the time. I still can’t wash forks or look at pencils. And my left eye feels funny all the time, like I’ve always got an eyelash in it, or there’s a little cut or something. I’ve read that pregnancy makes your eyes to go pot sometimes, so I finally decided to get them checked. Mind you, I have no obvious vision issues. I can read, I feel like I see perfectly.

Yeah, I have, like, the worst astigmatism you’ve ever seen in my left eye. It’s so bad that my doctor said, “You know, I normally tell people with astigmatism to only wear glasses for a few things. You, my dear, are NEVER to take these things off.” Astigmatism affects your depth perception and your peripheral vision. So, say you see a pencil behind someones ear. That pencil seems like it’s coming RIGHT AT YOU. Say you catch something sharp in the corner of your eye. Your eye muscles strain instantly to focus on it.

Sound familiar? Sound like something that maybe a doctor could have caught, oh, TWENTY YEARS EARLIER?

My right eye is, fortunately, perfect. 20/20. Except that when I first got glasses, my doctor warned me that my right eye would relax after all those years of pulling the weight of the left one, and it would take a little while to re-adjust.

He was right. I got a left eye and lost a right one. I REALLY couldn’t walk down stairs. It was honestly kind of funny watching me try, at 30, and fail epically. Eventually, it all sorted itself out and I could see for the first time in 20 years. I had no clue what I’d been missing. I didn’t have to take off my sunglasses and roll down the car window to merge to the left anymore. It was AWESOME.

I knew they were working because if I lost them, forgot to put them on, lost them, or lost them I’d feel it. The headaches would come. I’d get a sort of blind spot in my left eye, almost in the inside corner, like I had a bunch of eye googies or something.

I love my damn glasses. I love that I chose bright red frames. I love that they have rhinestones in them. I love them so much that when my kid broke them, I superglued them back together. I don’t ever want contacts. My glasses are my secret lover and I will never, ever part with them.

Except that I left them next to the tv in our hotel room in San Francisco 3 weeks ago.

My eyeballs hurt right now. They ache. They make the whole left side of my body ache. Everything from my left nostril east is cloudy. I just noticed how very very sharp my hair is. I keep thinking the boys are going to run over their sister when they’re out on the Ripsticks, even though she’s a good 15 feet away from them.  Apparently, the muscle strain has caused my brain to stop functioning in the area that prevents me from writing 5 million word, incoherent blog posts, too.  And makes me whine a lot.  Bygones.

I have to get new glasses. I have to find a new optometrist. Unless, of course, any of you know a good exorcist in the area. Because, apparently, that would buy me another 20 years.

*You can put all the hexes on the fridge you want, but if you forget to do the pantry, too, your clever diet plan will still fail.

My husband has been reading my blog for damn close to a year now. In fact, he’s been reading many of YOUR blogs for several months as well. I am still trying to come to terms with this little arrangement.

The thing is, I used to be able to say Any. Damn. Thing. I wanted to about him, because I went to such great lengths to keep this blog, to keep our little thing, a secret.  Now that it’s out there, I kind of have to temper myself. Which means I omit a lot. But not today, dear readers, not today.

See, The Donor’s work week is Tuesday - Saturday, and since he’s been out of town for the past week, he’s the slightest bit backed up at work right now. I am hoping, nigh praying, that means it’ll be until this weekend before he pops in for a read. And though I am terribly witty and tragically hot, he kind of lives with me. He doesn’t exactly scroll back through the posts. (I think) (I hope) (We’ll see)

So, without further ado, here’s a few of the conversations we’ve had over the past week, that he will positively murder me for posting on a public forum.  Bring it:

Via text

Him: Fucking (insert friend in Portland’s name here) has a Porsche.

Me: You have a huge (censored). You win.

Him: No, YOU win.

Me: I’d much rather (bleep) you in the back of the station wagon than a Porsche anyday. More wiggle room.

Him: You so nasty.

Me: Bring your suburban sell-out ass over here; I’ll show you some nasty.

Him: ………

Me: Too far?

Him: ………

• Valuable Lesson Aside: Do not point out to the approaching-mid-life-crisis-suburban-sell-out that he is a suburban-sell-out, no matter what degree of nasty you attach to it.

Via email:

Him: I love this blog thing. It’s like I don’t even have to talk to you anymore.

Me: ……….

• Wow, He’s Flexible Aside: I didn’t realize he could actually get his foot all the way up to his mouth. He should do YOGA.

On the porch:

Him: (about yesterday’s post) The Mile High Club, huh? Are you a member? *glare*

Me: Nope. The only person I’ve ever flown with is my brother.

Him: *continued glare*

Me: SO NO.

Him: *giggle* Well, technically you are. Denver and all. *wink*

Me: I guess you’re right. You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever done it with at sea level.

Him: *shoots soda out nose* Not cool, Shan. NOT COOL.

• Hello, My Name Is: Aside: Mary. My name is Mary. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

My husband arrived home after a week out of town for work tonight. He was greeted by his three children in their individual, typical fashions:

• 3of3 ran up to him, said, “Dadda?” and then whined and clawed at me for the rest of the night. Because she likes to make him work for it, that’s why. (She’s going to make some lucky man exceptionally miserable someday.) At one point, I am pretty sure she attempted to actually return herself to her original packaging, but, um, hell no? Exit only, sister.

• 2of3 came whizzing around the corner from the backyard to see his dad. “Hi Dad! What’cha get me?” He was marched back around that corner and told to try again.

• 1of3 sauntered on over when he was damn good and ready, sorta kinda gave his father something vaguely resembling a hug, they high-fived, and then they spent the rest of the night on the couch snuggled up to each other, watching TV shows I wouldn’t let this kid watch if tv was being executed tomorrow.

That’s not all dad came home to, though. I managed to get the sheets washed and the laundry done, but while he was gone:

• The DVD player in our room broke, reasons unknown
• The towel bar thing in the washroom just, well, fell off
• The back sliding glass door doesn’t so much slide anymore as it scrapes and shrieks its way to 3/4 of the way closed, then just gives up
• The boys’ screen for their window took a four story fall to the ground after a rather spirited pillow fight while I was sleeping, and has since been propped up against their bookshelves, awaiting dad’s return
• I bought Asparagus and Cheese raviolis for dinner by mistake. We had pigs in a blanket instead, because NO
• The 6 gallons of ice cream I bought melted, separated, and then re-froze. Yeah, gross
• My car smells like vomit with really stinky feet

But at least everyone is alive, however barely, and the floors are mopped.

The good news: We just now walked in the door from what started out as a birthday party for a friend’s toddler at 1pm and turned into the most awesome rockstar day out in downtown Vancouver, like, ever.

The bad news: “Just now” just so happens to be 1:16 in the morning.

The good news: I took a shitton of pictures today on our little outing.

The bad news: The camera I brought today, though quite lovely and all, is so freaking antiquated that my shiny new laptop is all, “Pshaw, I am so totally too good for that software.” And the guy with the shitastic laptop who can use the software? Is currently in another country.

The bad news: We returned home, ridiculously excited for ice cream, to find that the freezer has been set to Off for an indefinite amount of days.

The good news: The Kraft cheese slices that one of us put in there were totally not frozen.

The bad news: Each one of the four of us had to, at some point in the evening, get really comfortable with the idea of peeing in a Fatburger cup in front of half a million people.

The good news: Only one of us missed.