Photo by Monroe’s Dragon

My husband claims to despise the television. He’ll stare at it with vitriol in his eyes and profess his hatred for the “blaring commercials” and “stupid plot lines”. He’ll screech about how much it rots his brain and steals his soul. However, turn on Fringe, or Dexter, or Curb Your Enthusiasm, or House, or any Rick Steves Goes to Some Random Place in Eastern Europe and Acts Like a Raging Dweebazoid, and he is glued. I mean GLUED. Try to talk to my husband while he’s watching TV and you may as well be talking to a fence post. Double concentration just doesn’t work for him, nor for my son. They’re brains become little lasers in front of the boob tube. Unlike me who was raised with a TV in her room and had never slept with one off until I met my husband, when I was 23. This is the first time in my life I haven’t had more than 1 TV in the house, nevertheless not had one in my bedroom. (Oh, the horror! Oh, the agony! Oh, the really good night’s sleep!)

On any given day, you could walk into our living room and have no idea a TV exists. Well, unless you know that TVs often exist hidden in armoires, in which case I expect you to pretend like you have no idea one exists. Preferably with an exclamation of, “WOW! I had NO IDEA that was back there! You are a GENIUS!” (Ego stroking will often get you carnitas, or cookies, or both. Just a heads up.)

I say “could” because, as of late, I’ve been turning on the TV way too much. In fact, every opportunity I get I’m turning it on. I’ve begun to judge when it’s time for The Boy’s nap, when it’s time to start dinner, when it’s time to inhale, by what time Curious George, or Word World, or God Forbid, Street Court comes on. TV is no longer an occasional fun thing for either myself or The Boy. It’s become an everyday, Good Morning, pee, breakfast, TV sort of thing. I’ve watched our days go from fun little crafts and ridiculously annoying repetitive storytimes to “Mommy, what’s going to come on next?!” It is sucking my time away with my son and it’s pissing me off. I am pissing me off.

I can always explain it away with the fact that, in winter, I am in pain. A lot of it. I start to move like the tin man before he was oiled. I’ve had arthritis in my joints since about 16. Bad weather brings on bad aches, and bad aches bring on the urge to hang out under a blanket and veg. I should be cleaning, but I can’t stand for long. I can’t do dishes because the water sends needles shooting up to my shoulders. The basement is where all my crafty mess stash is, but it’s also the most freezing part of the house. It’s easy to get complacent and not want to do crap but find out why that lady slapped that man with a knife on Judge Judy (really, though, how does one slap someone with a knife?).

But, if I’m honest with myself, there’s really no excuse for not taking an Advil and chugging along. Or, better yet, curling up under a blanket with the boy and reading all day. Or doing Starfall. Or writing. There are a million things I could be doing that don’t include turning that thing on, they just take a bit more work than pointing a remote. Bastards.

So, I’m setting a goal for the week. No TV. I want my family to talk to each other again. I want to eat dinner at the table, and not on our couch. I want our lives to be more about each other than what snarky comment Greg House is making to the newest dying patient in his ever so capable care. (FYI, if I’m ever dying of some unknown illness, take me to him. Yes, I know he’s not real. Can’t a girl dream?)

Please don’t get me wrong, if you’re a regular TV watching family and love it, that’s great. It works for you. Unfortunately, when the TV is on in our house, no one interacts. We don’t talk, we don’t laugh, we don’t learn, we don’t connect. It just doesn’t work for us.

I rolled right off your side of the bed this morning.

Go ahead. Have your moment of trying to stifle your overwhelming urge to laugh hysterically.

Really. Go ahead.

Done? Need another moment?

Alright.

Just fyi, I may have heartily bruised my knees in the 3 foot fall.

Oh, and scraped off a rather large part of my thigh-ass skin, too.

Go ahead. Laugh, you evil brat. Somehow this is your fault.

On Sunday, my husband and I celebrated our second anniversary. It didn’t quite go off as planned, but neither did it two years ago when we did it in the first place.

We had planned to drop the boy off at my folks’ as we did last year. Unfortunately, my folk’s opted to go “up the hill” (code for “going gambling just to tick Jess off and cause her to give us an hour long lecture on the economy”) the week previous and, as usual, came home sick. While my dad insisted that it was a sinus infection, I didn’t want to risk it. Something funny happens when you become a parent, you become downright terrified of any and all risk of infection because there is nothing worse than being sick with a sick child.

We had a nice, loud dinner at the restaurant in which Eric proposed (well, a sister of the restaurant), and then went grocery shopping, just the three of us. My anniversary present was a bag of my favorite lily bulbs and a million on-sale Yo Gabba Gabba shirts for the boy (it is the year for cotton afterall). Eric got more knick-knack boxes.

I forget, sometimes, how much Eric does for us, for me. He keeps our cars running (in fact, he’s outside doing that right now), he loves to cook, he’s happy doing the dishes (if only because he has to re-do them after I’m done), and he’s willing to put up with hanging up all the laundry because I not only despise it but am too lazy short to get them up there right. I’m much more grateful for him than I let on most of the time and that really needs to change. He should’ve gotten more than knick-knack boxes.

While our anniversary night out won’t be until this weekend, it will be without the boy screaming, “More agua! More WHEEEEE!*” which will make it at least 40x less fun. I must be the only girl who doesn’t entirely look forward to a date night with her husband. I should, and I feel kinda awful that I don’t but, really, I’m not sure if I know how to have adult conversation anymore. I have a feeling it’ll be a whole lot of, “I miss the boy. When are we going to see the boy? Did you see the boy when he did that ridiculously awesome thing that I bet no other child on the face of the planet has ever done? When are we going to see the boy again?”

On occasion, I get a little worried that I may have lost myself. Which would entirely suck, because it took a long time to find myself in the first place. Of course, if this is me forgotten, I think I’m okay with that. I have a wonderful family, a caring husband and a beautiful son. I don’t think I could ask for more.

Happy 2nd Anniversary, Eric. I love you.

* Wheee is the boy’s term for, “run me down the aisles in the shopping cart at break(other-shopper’s)neck speeds while I stare at the ceiling and yell, “WHEEEEEEEEE!”

Me: Wow. Charmed sure is a crap show.
Eric: Yeah.
Me: Still better than Angel, though.
Eric: *steely stare*

Apparently, them’s fightin’ words.