30 Reasons to Celebrate our Favorite 30 Year Old
August 7, 1986: our favorite man in the world was born. 30 years ago today. What a beautiful life he has lived up until this point. I mean….he’s created 3 additional humans, among many other accomplishments. We are opposite in many ways. (Ok, every way. And then some.) I love talking. He loves silence. I love chaos. He loves order. I love spending time with 82,305,342 of my closest friends. He loves spending time with our family of 5. I love big parties. He loves when people forget it’s his birthday. Unfortunately he’s out of luck this birthday because THIRTY. It deserves extra attention.
Goodbye Bikini, Hello Love.
Just last week I was sitting on a beach in Mexico with a piña colada on one side and my husband on the other. He was wearing a blue swimsuit that matched the blue of his eyes. I was wearing a green polka dot bikini that actually made me feel quite uncomfortable, being preacher’s kid who grew up wearing athletic shorts to my knees (dubbed “Lord Shorts” of course). But it was our honeymoon. You’re supposed to show skin on your honeymoon. You’re supposed to only wear skin on your honeymoon. Or something. We were so cute, he with his 4-ish pack (everyone loses a few “packs” after college), me with my toned legs and flat stomach. We were so…
The Gaggiest, Greatest Love Story
August 2005: a barely-18-year-old me packed up and moved to a small west Texas town for college. I’d never been to Texas before, but I was 100% sure (based on movies and other characterizations) that every Texan boy wore boots and cowboy hats. And possibly rode a horse to class. Definitely had experience with ranching and breeding longhorns. I was excited about the prospects. Imagine my surprise when I met an irresistible, clean cut, New Balance-wearing accounting major the first day I stepped foot on campus. No Stetson, no pearl snaps, just a baseball hat and an ample t-shirt collection. I immediately knew there was something different about him. (And not just…
Those Chinese Racists.
In the weeks following the birth of our offspring, Taylor had some highly entertaining conversations in his sleep. (Refer to posts here and here for proof.) Unfortunately for me, he’s been getting adequate sleep for a while now and hasn’t graced me with his sleep conversations in a while…until last night. It was as if he’d been storing up an entire sleep scenario for a special occasion (last night). It played out like this: (It’s 8:42pm and Taylor has fallen asleep mid-conversation, ceiling light still on.) Taylor: (sits straight up from dead sleep) What?? I’m not waiting. Sarah: Huh? Waiting for what? Taylor: For the light to turn off. (Points…
Rangers Game & Antfest
For Father’s Day, we scored some tickets to a Rangers game (we love you, Marla). It was Beckett’s first game and Taylor was beside himself with excitement – which, if you know Taylor, means that he smiled only slightly more than usual. He’s not quite as expressive as me. Or our son, we’re beginning to learn. We lathered on sunscreen for the 99 degree afternoon game, found our section, scalded our butts on the plastic seats, sweated (swat?) through our clothes within 4 minutes, laughed when other unsuspecting attendees yelled “OH $#!&” as they scalded their butts on the plastic seats, and waited for the game to start. The Rangers…
Your daddy.
He is your number one fan. He’s your supporter. He’s your friend. He’s your teacher. He’ll never leave you. He’ll always protect you. He can’t wait to play ball with you. He giggles at every little thing you do. He beams with pride when he carries you through the store. He works incredibly hard to provide for you. He tells you how precious you are. He is forever proud of you. He teaches you how the world works. He plays with you. He sneaks in your room at night to kiss you. He scoops you up when he comes home from work and tells you he missed you. He reads…
Father’s Day (Part 1) & Hurrcuts
Before I dive into the intricacies of infant haircuts (I bet a ton of people just clicked on to bigger and brighter things): 1. My spiritual gift is not giving awesome presents. That said, I gave Taylor an awesome present yesterday: So cheap, so cute. The letters were like $3 each at Michaels. Or maybe Hobby Lobby. Or possibly Jo-Anns. For sure one of those crafty places. We had a mini photoshoot in the front yard this morning, I printed the pictures, framed them together, and presented it immediately to Taylor. There was no way I could wait until Sunday to give it to him. 2. Have you seen this…
Love.
6 years ago today, a boy that I really liked gave me the most thoughtful present I’ve ever received. Men: take notes. Or just print this post. Either one. He gave me a dozen red roses which I displayed proudly in my freshman dorm room. The roses were just a teaser for our date that night after he got off work and showered to rid himself of the ever-present fish smell. He worked at Red Lobster. Now we’re off topic. My friend came in, counted the roses, and reported back that there were only 11. My response was, “Seriously? Who counts someone else’s flowers?” But, alas, she was right. The…
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Let first me mention a text I sent this week: (blue = me) My lack of real exercise is astounding. Annoying Spouses A cyberfriend of mine (I claim her, regardless of if she claims me) recently blogged about things she does to annoy her husband. I knew I had to blog about it too, because I love annoying Taylor. It’s kind of a twisted hobby. My top 5 current ways to annoy him: 1. Scare him. Holy moly this is funny. I’m admittedly unfair in this, because I’m the only one who is allowed to scare the other. He scared me once while I was showering and I silently wept…
Podophobia, Newborn Difficulties, & Sleep Talk
Podophobia Definition: a typical phobic condition in which you feel disturbed and irritated when you look at feet, touch feet (may be yours or someone else’s) or even talk about feet. You even dislike people coming and touching your own foot. The feeling is unexplainable. (Thanks to Phobia Fear Release for that excellent definition.) My name is Sarah, and I’m a podophobic. It’s true. I have an irrational dislike of feat. I might even consider it a fear of sorts. How do I know I have a problem? I pick up Taylor’s socks with a t-shirt when transporting them to the laundry room. Oh, and I get really sweaty and…
