Friday, August 31, 2012

Sometimes you just have to laugh...

I'm slightly obsessive compulsive. (Anyone who truly knows me is probably laughing at that statement.) And my poor husband is the opposite. God must have gotten a real kick out of putting us together, that's for sure.

Oh, and I'm a control freak. It's embarrassing to admit some of the things I've tried to control in my little world. 

There was a time when I tried to get Greg to stop wearing his socks inside our apartments because "they wear out faster that way and get dingy." I would go to my sock drawer and pull out a pair of my three year old socks that looked like new. "Look! Yours can be this nice too!" I would proudly exclaim, utterly confused about his indifference to his sock bottoms.

I truly think God's will is perfect because if I'd had a kid when we first married, I probably would have messed her up for life. Instead, we waited, and in that time I've mellowed ... a little ... ok, I'm still really working on it. Ok, motherhood in general forces you to loosen up.

Greg's not a complainer, so I had no idea this had affected him during our early years. But now that I'm changing, we're constantly having conversations like this:

"Whoa, you wouldn't have let that go a few years ago!"

"What? Let what go?"

"Do you realize you just left the house, and all the throw pillows weren't perfectly arranged on the couch?"

Cue hanging head in shame.

Obviously, God still has a lot of work to do on me, which is why I think he allows days like last Thursday, the day of our new home inspection.

I woke up that morning and immediately began running around like a mad woman, mainly because I hadn't incorporated into my schedule 20 minutes to address two major diaper blowouts. We were a few minutes late for the appointment, and when we arrived, Greg approached the seller's agent to remind him that the tax/deed information we'd asked for weeks earlier, was due today. I vaguely heard this, but was unsure whether Greg had gotten the point across. So I yanked Darby out of her seat, grabbed her diaper bag and hurried over, trying to adjust my shirt while brushing half my hair out of my now sweaty face.

"They said our application would be canceled if it's not all in today!" I breathlessly exclaimed, meeting with three raised brows and looks that clearly said, "Who's this mess?"

I instantly shut up, realizing what a control freak I was being.

After the inspection, during which I think I behaved very well, we had to zip over to State Farm for the last item: a homeowner's insurance quote, which had also been waiting on info from the selling agent to complete. In the car I began to inform Greg that it was annoying we were rushing around simply because other people weren't "doing their job."

Annoyingly, he wasn't annoyed.

"...Maybe ... maybe, God is trying to teach me to trust him and be patient with others?"

"That definitely could be."


After State Farm, we drove 45 minutes to the branch where our mortgage guy works, to hand in our application. I sat in the car, nursing, and developing a deeper concern about something I'd noticed going on with Darby. I called my mom, who said I should call the Pediatrician, who said I should bring her in to get looked at in two hours.

Greg returned and I told him the plan. His response was,

"Welp! They told me the wrong branch. He works another 45 minute drive across town."


45 minutes later, I was changing Darby while Greg ran inside the correct branch, and my phone rang. It was Greg.

"Hey, you know last night when we saw in the paperwork that there was a mortgage application processing fee, and you said it was probably like 40 dollars?"


"Well, it's 354 dollars. I'm not sure if I should put it on the debit or credit card."

"What?" *Sigh* "Credit."

By the time Greg finished, there was just enough time for me to drop him off at work, race home, throw some lunch down my throat while Darby cried her head off, and rush to the Pediatrician's office.

The waiting room was empty and we were called right in. "Yes!" I thought. Once there, Darby began to fuss again. It was time to nurse, and I pretty much have no shame left about this. I just stuck her right on as we waited for the doctor. She finished feeding, and the doctor hadn't come. Then we walked around the room, closely examining the Whinnie the Pooh wallpaper, and she still hadn't come. By some miracle, Darby was completely overcome by the Whinnie the Pooh wallpaper and stayed happy and quiet.

At around my 120th circuit of the room, the doctor came back, said Darby was fine, and we could go give them 50 dollars and leave.

I had spent the rest of the afternoon at the doctor's, and it was time to pick up Greg, head home, and get ready for a youth pool party that evening.

At home, I finally plopped into a chair with Darby and called my mom to tell her what the doctor had said. My eyes glazed over as I stared mindlessly through the sliding glass door onto my cute little screened in porch. Then, in the middle of explaining that I wasn't sure Darby was up for a pool party, and before my very eyes, this happened:

The glass top to the patio table spontaneously shattered into a billion pieces and crashd to the floor, spreading out everywhere, atomic bomb style. I think it was God' punch line, and you know what? It was hilarious.

I laughed so hard, it took a couple of minutes to explain to my mom what was going on.

God's trying to change me little by little. And I think some evidence that it's working is the fact that we've simply stayed off the porch, and have yet to clean it up.

1 comment:

  1. I can't believe you laughed at that. I would have freaked out. But I guess I can relate to the couch cushions. In college, I had a bunch of color-coordinated cushions I made that sat on my bed. The dorm I was in had these things they called "bolsters" built into the wall next to the bed that made the bed like a day bed/couch kind of thing, and I always had to have the cushions arranged a certain way. Flash forward to when I had kids, and I was constantly finding the couch cushions on the floor, but never able to catch someone in the act of throwing them there. Everyone I accused gave me a blank look and, apparently, went on doing it behind my back until I gave up and got rid of the cushions. Fast forward to today, we're finally able to have couch cushions again, but we only have one or two and I really don't care where they end up. This will happen to you, too. Maybe you should give away all your cushions before you move :-)