Before my rant of yesterday, I was going to write this post.
Better late than never. And, incidentally, I feel much better after that rant. Why is that? Why, when you get something out, does it feel like not that large an issue?
Back to the weekend. The plan was to put Brody into bed early, get Thai food takeout (my favorite) and watch some movies on Valentine's Day.
Husband went to rent the movies. This is usually not fruitful because invariably he returns home with some kind of zombie flick or mind numbing action movie.
This time, he came back with Vicki Cristina Barcelona. Quite a pleasant surprise. Turns out he does know what I want to watch.
Then we went to the mall. Not to shop, but to let the toddler monster run until he tired. There is also a merry-go-round at the mall. Brody rides the zebra.
Also at the mall, there is an indoor glow-in-the-dark putt-putt course. I take Brody in there to look around as part of our mall hike. We never play.
Until we played air hockey.
Air hockey is the one arcade game I love. I'm sort of blissfully in love with air hockey.
Turns out, so is my son.
There was a step-stool that we used, and then Brody and Jeremy "played," cast and all. He can fit the paddle between his now-index finger (future thumb) and now-middle finger (future index finger) on his left hand.
At right are the action shots.
The kid actually knew how to play and knew what to do.
He loved it. There is now a high likelihood of an airhockey table appearing in our basement.
At home, we exchanged valentines.
To put this in context, as you may know, my marriage was not in the best of places this past summer.
Lately, it's been pretty good. Things have shifted and changed. My husband has shifted and changed and maybe I have too.
At any rate, when he gives me cards on holidays, he always, to his credit, picks the really wordy ones with all the romance and crap. (I give him the so-called humorous cards).
But he never ever actually expresses anything about his feelings from him to me. How he really feels. He'll say "I love you, you're a great woman and mom," but that's it. I know that's actually a lot, and I've saved every single one of those cards. But still. There was nothing ever . . . . deeper from him. (Not that I expressed anything deeper to him. I'm giving him cards that rhyme with cartoon characters on them).
All of this to get to this. He did give me a card. But he also gave me a love letter.
A real love letter. I don't want to share any of it really, but, after I read it, my facial expression was not unlike Brody's after splashing about in the tub: