Making Time for Thanfulness

So, as you may remember from my last couple of posts, things have been absurdly nuts for me lately. Work was already crazy stressful, plus it's NaNo month, and you can see from my little word widget over there on the right that I'm way, way behind. Which sucks because NaNo is really (and totally disproportionately) important to me.

Miss G is flunking a class. Miss L has some weird skin rash exactly over her lymph nodes. Dan was laid off last week. Plus, this upcoming weekend is our family's Thanksgiving celebration, so I'm cooking a big vat of French onion soup for a crowd. You know, in all my spare time.

In short, much like every other day in life, there are many things happening all at the same time that all deserve priority and are all getting shortchanged.

As always, it is so easy to feel overwhelmed by whatever. Work. NaNo. Family. Things. If not these things than other things.

Dan just shrugs and says "Well, honey, you've pulled bigger rabbits out of smaller hats before. I have no doubt everything will work out just fine."

This is both exasperating and sort of complimentary.

And dead on.

With Thankful French Onion Soup Day just 12 hours away, I find my thoughts turning toward thankfulness, despite everything. Because really, there are so many things to feel thankful for.

• I'm thankful for my boss, who is all around awesome and who also hired some minions to ease up my workload. 
• I'm thankful for my job; despite the current crunch, I do love what I do and I'm thankful to work from home.  
• Dan's layoff came at the perfect time to spend the entire week at home while Miss L is here; they haven't seen each other since Labor Day. I'm thankful they can reconnect this week.

Most importantly, I'm thankful we're happy. Even if there's some graininess upon close examination, when we take a step back and look at the big picture, we're happy. And our lives are moving in the right direction, even if we feel all squished wiggling on through the current bottleneck. 

The stressful times are the hardest in which to be thankful. They're also the most important times in which to make thankfulness a priority.

When things keep piling up, step away. Just for a second. Take 10 minutes. Breathe.

Make time for thankfulness.

Becoming a "No Problem" Person

One of the things I love most about my husband is that he always says yes, and never yes but.

Yes, but just this once.
Yes, but I can only stay until 8.
Yes, but lemme check on some stuff first.

Dan's eternal yes is also one of the things that irritated me the most when we first started dating. He would ask the girls what they wanted for dessert. One kid would ask for a little tiny Häagen-Dazs from the grocery store. Another wanted a Blizzard from DQ. Dan himself wanted coffee ice cream from the local candy shop. And I wanted a caramel apple empanada from Taco Bell.

"Ugh, there's never any CHOICES around this house!"

I grew up in a house with 3 kids who never liked the same things, so this is nothing new to me. My dad handled this scenario with "If you kids can't agree on something, no one's getting any dessert." Very practical. Even a dessert you don't like is still a treat, right? As such, I suffered through many a horrible vanilla milkshake as a kid. Besides, what parent in their right mind wants to drive around town for an hour getting everyone their own separate dessert?

No one except Dan.

It's isn't that he's an indulgent parent (although that is certainly true). He's just a no problem person. A yes person. He says yes to everything. There is never a but. There is never an attached string. His generosity is utterly unconditional.

I have always hated asking anyone for anything. Until I met Dan I didn't realize that this was not just because I'm obnoxiously independent (again, certainly true), but because I dreaded the strings. The conditions. The guilt trips. The inevitable extraneous nonsense that comes with even the simplest request.

"Hey, could you grab some milk on the way home?"
"Weren't you just at the store yesterday? Never mind, it's fine. I guess I'll just be a little late for dinner."

"Hey, can you drop me on your way past my house?"
"Well, I was planning on running some errands right now but I'm sure I could make time. Hop in!"

"Hey, could we reschedule our meeting next week?"
"Yeah, I can probably move some stuff around to make that happen."

Not one of those answers sound like a real yes, even though they technically all are.

Asking Dan anything-- still, even after 8 years together-- is like when you expect closed-door resistance and, finding none, stumble across the threshold in surprise.

"Did you guys know there's, like, awesomeness out here?"

I never realized how much all those non-yes yesses wore on me. From every single person. Every single day. And it's not like I just hang out with sucky people; we ALL do this. I do it myself. We want everyone to know exactly what they owe us. Exactly how much we should be worth to them. Or how much they're worth to us, as measured by the amount of effort we're willing to put forth.

Dan's simple yes is a such a powerful and welcome presence in my life that I've decided to try and become a no problem person myself. I practice saying yes when people ask me things.

No excuses.
No temporizing.
No subtle punishments hidden between words.

Just yes. No problem.

The One You Feed

An old Cherokee man is teaching his grandson the ways of the world. He says, "Within all of us, there are two wolves. One wolf is good. He does no harm. He lives at peace in your heart, and finds harmony in the world.

"The other wolf-- he is full of anger, snarling, raging at everyone and everything. Yet all his anger changes nothing.

"These two wolves, they are battling in you, always. Always."

The boy is silent, then asks, "Which one will win?"

His grandfather answers, "The one you feed."

I never write about being a stepmom anymore. I can't think about the wasteland of the last several years of my life for longer than about eight seconds before I'm incoherent with anger.

Eight seconds. The same amount of time you have to hang onto a wild bull at the rodeo.

Last night Dan told me he is working on forgiving Miss L's mom, as if any of us needed more evidence that he is some kind of freakishly evolved, on-the-edge-of-enlightenment being.

"I don't see that ever happening for me," I say. "Being a honeybadger, yes. Not giving a crap, not letting it ruin my life, those things I can do. Forgiveness? No. I can't do it. I don't see how I can ever think how all the shit she's done is okay. I mean... ever."

He says he understands. He says he doesn't blame me. He says, "I'm still going to work toward forgiveness." Because he is a better human than anyone I know.

I'm not there. And not in a grudge-holding way. I am probably the least grudge-holdy person you'll ever meet. Not that I don't have a temper; I do. But it flares up and burns out real fast, and I always apologize immediately: a genuine apology. I am capable of grace.

I am not actively angry. Our everyday life is very cheerful these days. Peaceful. It's fun when Miss L is here, and she even keeps in touch with us when she's not now. All of the dark days are behind us. I know this. I believe it 100%.

Those dark days, though. They're molasses. They're sticky when you think you've cleaned everything up and put it all away.

I have forgiven worse. I have forgiven far less forgivable things. So why not these things?

Miss L is not my daughter; I should have no stake in this claim. For the love of pete, if I could forgive all the crap my actual biological daughter's other parent has dished out, I should be able to get over this. This woman who shouldn't even matter.

And still, there is just something about all the stupid bullshit that I cannot let go of. Maybe the using her daughter as a weapon. Maybe the calculating way she sabotaged our budding family when it was still so delicate, and destroyed our foundation so thoroughly that we will always be stunted as a result. Or maybe the myriad of other hypocritical, double standard, underhanded sneaky-ass things I can't even list here except to just say sometimes other parents just suck.

Every time, I expect that discussing these things will lance the infection and drain all those soupy, putrid toxins out, leave my mind light and airy the way venting so often does. But not this. It just festers.

It just feeds the wolf.

I think someday down the road, maybe it'll be safe to dwell. Eventually I'll find the minefield is dormant, and-- beyond the trenches-- I'll find forgiveness.

Until then, I'm starving it out.

Fathering from the Heart

Miss G is with her dad in Vegas for a chunk of the summer, and Dan is still down in Boulder City fixing up his folks' house, about a half hour from Miss G's dad.

Miss G's dad & I talked about summer plans and worked out her travel schedule back in early May to depart immediately after Memorial Day weekend. A week or two later, he called up and asked if I could change her tickets.

"I got a work call. I'm scheduled for the entire first week she's supposed to be here," he explained.

I said, "What if I keep the flight the same but she just stays with Dan for that week? Then you can pick her up when you're finished with your call." 

It didn't even occur to me to check with Dan first to see if he'd be okay having Miss G for the week. I knew he'd be super excited.

Dan was super excited again today because Miss G's dad got another work call for next week, and had asked if Dan could take Miss G again. Of course Dan didn't hesitate. Even better because Miss L is with us for the remainder of the summer now, so he'll have both kids under his wing. 

Nothing makes my husband happier than being a dad.

I am thankful every, every day for his presence in our lives.

Ode to my Husband

Every morning, before I'm quite awake, as I become conscious of the furry, sleeping person next to me, my first coherent thought is "Thank god for Dan."

I have never met anyone more compassionate and patient than Dan. He would have to be, to put up with me & Gwyn of course, but he is just... beyond.

Dan taking Peep on an exclusive uncle-niece hotsprings hike.

I knew he was a gentle soul from the moment our eyes met, but didn't realize the depth of his capacity until we'd been dating nearly a year. We were grocery shopping with the girls, and Miss L was standing on the handle-end of the cart, jumping up and down between his arms as he pushed. He told her multiple times to stop jumping and she ignored him. As we left, she launched herself with a particular enthusiasm which sent her head directly into his chin, so hard I could hear the snap of teeth from across the parking lot. It made my jaw hurt for him.

We all went silent, braced for an explosion, Miss L totally still with big eyes like a hunted rodent. She is all too familiar with her mother's frequent outbursts, and expected no less from her father. I remember thinking "Finally, I get to see Dan lose his temper." I am not proud of this. It seemed abnormal for someone to be on such an even keel all the time.

But after a noise of strangled pain, Dan just said-- in a slightly choked voice-- "I really wish you'd listen to me and be more careful kiddo." And we continued to the car.

Me, I would have flipped out. There would have been yelling and cursing. I think most parents would have done the same.

But not Dan.

The weekend Miss L refused to get on the plane, he called every phone line he could think of to reach her, to talk with her about what was going on: mom's cell, her cell, landline. Every attempt went straight to voicemail. Finally he just left a message.

My voicemail would have been flipped out, yelling and cursing straight up till the beep cut me off. I suspect most parents would have reacted similarly.

But not Dan.

Instead, he said: "Hey kiddo, it's your dad. I'm sad about what's happening, but I just want you to know I love you no matter what."

And he didn't (as I and the other more petty members of the human race might have) leave this message as a guilt trip. Nope. He really meant it.

Dan didn't lose his temper till a couple days later, when Miss L finally returned his call with a sulky attitude, angry at him and calling him selfish. That was when I developed sudden empathy for the insane  emotional turmoil which drove Alec Baldwin to leave that nasty voicemail for his daughter a few years back. That was when I finally learned the answer to the question I've wondered for seven years now: What will it take to make Dan snap?

I don't blame him. I don't think anyone could. Most of us would have lost it much sooner.

But not Dan.

Dan's first meeting with the new Parental Coordinator is today. Miss L's mom says Miss L cannot continue seeing us twice a month after we move to Colorado, though it sounds like this would have been brought up even without our move. Miss L is (we're told) too exhausted from traveling so much. Her grades are suffering. She doesn't see her friends enough. And this is not only her mom's idea; Miss L is agreeing with every word.

Dan says, okay. I'm not thrilled about this, but I can handle once a month if it's better for her. We can redistribute the lost days elsewhere. Her mother has over three weeks in the summer and half of Spring Break. We can rearrange.

There is silence from Miss L's mom. She does not want to give up more days. She just wants Dan to discard his parenting time and be happy about it.

As per the court orders, we now invoke the help of a third party: the PC. The magical gal who's supposed to wave her wand and resolve all the differences between parents.

Dan and I have discussed strategy, pros and cons, potential compromises, outlined defenses for the most likely attacks for over a week now. He feels prepared. He has lists.

Last night he comes home and I ask how he's doing. He's silent for a minute, then says: "You know, I don't even care. All I want is to be a dad to my kid without fighting tooth and nail to do it. I don't care if I only see her once a month. I don't even care if she barely talks to me in between visits. I really don't. I just want them to let me be a dad."

Me? I'd be flipping out. Yelling and cursing. I think most parents would.

But not Dan.

Anniversaries

Our wedding was three years ago today. I jokingly said to my mother "It's hard to say if things have gotten better in those three years, or way worse."

Except, like many jokes, it's not really a joke.

When I first got our amazing wedding photos I had trouble looking through them.

Instead of seeing pictures, I saw memories. I remembered crying for hours the night before the wedding, sure Dan was making a colossal mistake in marrying someone his daughter hated so much. I remembered his ex-wife calling and yelling at him for an hour the first day of our honeymoon and wondered why the hell I had willingly signed on for this much animosity... for the rest of my life. The wedding itself, a ceremony promising union, felt like the biggest possible farce.

Hard to believe you could not find perfection against this backdrop.

Fast forward three years. Life is still uncertain, although I cry much less these days. Miss L no longer radiates hatred from her being if I walk into the room. And although Dan's ex-wife remains an obstacle to the future we want more often than not, we are learning how not to give in to terrorist demands.

We married in the eye of a hurricane but the storm is finally passing. Clouds are breaking; blue skies appearing.

Maybe the wedding felt false because I thought it should be the beginning of happily ever after and ours felt like the furthest thing from.

A wedding is a beginning, period.

On our wedding day, Dan and I joined hands and committed to a life together, and that's exactly what we're doing. It's not the perfect life. It never is, not for anyone. We're just living life, and living it together.

Over rough roads and smooth.

Doesn't get much more authentic or more celebratory than that.

Exercising your patience muscle

Last night I was freaking out about housing after the move. 

I'm self-employed, so getting a loan for a place in CO will be tricky. My current writing gig might become part-time rather than on a contract basis, so I might start getting real paychecks. Might. Sometime in the next month.

But maybe not.

Or I might nanny for my sister. Might. And I'd have real paychecks then too, but that won't be till September. 

In between now and September, there's nothing but limbo. We know when we want to leave, we just don't have a place to land. We need a place to land because A) I don't want to spend another summer in godforsaken Las Vegas and B) Miss G starts school mid-August.

When I think about the logistics of this move, it all seems impossible. And while I do have faith that everything will work out somehow or other eventually, that is not good enough. I want it to work out now so I don't have to worry about it anymore.

Dan, in his exasperating, optimistic way, says "Well honey... Just think of this as a good time to exercise your patience muscle."

Luckily for him, my patience muscle has developed enough that I didn't punch him for that statement. 

(Actually, he makes me laugh. I can't explain it.)

The thing is, though, Dan is right. You do actually have to exercise your patience muscle to make it stronger. Believing things will come to fruition, that makes my faith muscle stronger. And writing all the time, I feel my imagination muscle has gotten stronger too. Also, my idea muscle.

You never know all the ways your life will develop, internally or externally. It's a pretty fun ride. 

If your patience muscle is strong enough to hold the course.

Two Years!

Single Parenting Salute

I’m doing this internet Secret Santa thing and after some (minor) internet stalking, I think my giftee is a single dad. This makes me want to send him about three times as much stuff as I originally planned, plus an entire extra box of stuff just for his kid.

Because it’s tough. It’s so tough, I couldn’t comprehend how hard it was until recently. When you’re in it, you just do it. But watching my sister with her daughter, how busy she is, knowing Miss G was at least that busy at the same age and I was doing it solo-- I don’t understand how I got through it. How we both did. I remember people asking me at the time, “How do you do it!” and I remember shrugging and saying “It’s not that big a deal.” And I really thought it wasn’t. It was just my life. And I was happy, and I loved it.

Miss G’s dad’s absence was a blessing. It made things easier on us, not harder. And in many, many ways I had it made. Although my folks were no longer in town, I had a village of friends helping me, an army of benevolence at my disposal. I had a generous grandpa who let me live in his home rent-free while he moved into semi-assisted living. I had scads of free grants to go back to school, enough to cover tuition and daycare entirely. I took out a loan anyway and just lived off that during the school year, then worked summers. Living off less than $1000/month was challenging, yes. But I’d always been so broke, it wasn’t a whole lot more challenging than usual.

And I remember those years as being blissed out. Challenging, but hilarious. Miss G and I call them our ‘glory years.’ But with newly married perspective, I realize-- it was a big deal. So big I couldn’t see the edges. I thought I stood on solid ground but I was really treading water, neck-deep. And the longer we swam solo, the more exhausted I got. The chances of a passing boat seeing us splash around got slimmer and slimmer.

But I didn’t know all that. We just lived our life. Our movies. Our Zelda-playing. Our pizza-ordering. Our long walks and longer drives, screaming along to Jackson 5 with the windows rolled down.

Not until I met Dan and he so effortlessly stepped in to help me with Miss G from time to time-- volunteered daycare when he wasn’t working, never gave me exasperated attitude if I canceled on him because she had the flu, offered her shoulder-back rides everywhere without her asking, was just there with his comforting presence and his stupid one-liners and his gentle heart-- did I realize how much easier it was with two.

I stumbled into my Santa’s old online journal entries about moving here and there with his daughter. He mentions his roommate , and I imagine the challenges of this little girl growing up with a couple computer nerds. (I say that lovingly). He mentions dating, and I can’t get into the horrors of dating as a single parent because this is a blog, not a novel. He’s posted grinning, freckled photos of her smiling over food and I wonder if she made it herself, or if he’s teaching her to cook. There’s one of her gamely yanking carpet out of her room, so he’s teaching her some remodeling too. Excellent.

Australian Secret Santa, hang in there. It gets easier as she gets older. I salute you.

PS, Thank God again for Dan.

Exhuasted Shuffle-Step

It's hard to say who's more exhausted-- me or Dan. Actually, I'll include my sister in there too; she's juggling a 2-year-old plus the bulk of the transportation and meal planning.

It's funny that being home is more tiring than being in the hospital. We got no sleep there-- no uninterrupted sleep anyway. Someone came in every 2 minutes to draw blood or drop off equipment or deliver medication. But at home, the place with a big bed with no handrails and no interruptions-- neither of us can sleep.

Dan's been up walking around during the wee hours both nights we've been home. I can't sleep till midnight, and find myself awake around 5. Naps aren't working either.

Sleep. Sleeeeeeep.

Jiggety Jig

We made it back home.

We're in the house three whole hours before Dan looks at me and says, "I've got cabin fever, honey." 

Dads

I guess Dan being gone weighed on Miss G’s mind this weekend too, because when I got up this morning she’d posted a video on her facebook page mentioning him being out of town. “My stepdad, Dan-- the actual one I live with, my... dad -- is in Reno visiting my stepsister...”

She swings the word “dad” like a right hook. Defensive, like she’s daring someone to challenge it. You can hear the anger layered underneath, see the contempt and hurt skitter across her face when she says it. It breaks my heart for her, and for her father. My instinct is to call him and say “Listen to this. How can that be okay with you?” but I don’t, knowing it would make no difference. I’ve tried. I told him when I found the piece of paper that had “My dad does not care about me!” written about 20 times on it, like a student’s punishment. He stepped it up the next couple weekends, but fell back into the usual rut after a bit.

He just doesn’t get it. He got a job offer in LA a few years back and refused to take it, telling me, “I’d never see Miss G!” I thought, Wow. He really has no idea that he could live and work in another state and keep right on seeing her just as much as he does now.

In his mind, he’s a caring and involved father. In Miss G’s, he’s the daddy who’s supposed to love her but doesn’t, and she thinks it’s her fault somehow.

And in mine... In mine, he’s a broken man who can’t spend too much time with his daughter, because it might open him to the entirety of what he’s destroyed. And if he glimpses that, he’ll never come back from it. Never.

I used to hate him. Then I felt sorry for him. And now I think-- he's had twelve years of chances. This isn't circumstance; this is what he's chosen. And thank God for Dan. Thank God every minute of every day for Dan.

Waiting Forever Room

I picked Dan up early from work, and we drove to meet his surgeon. We filled out paperwork, and then we waited for the appointment time. Then we kept waiting. The flock thinned as folk were herded back into the nether regions.

Not us though. We kept waiting.

And waiting.

Dan leans over and whispers, “I bet we can out-wait all these other patients, honey.”

I am thankful every single day for a man who makes me laugh all the time. Even in an oncologist’s waiting room.

Dan kept me giggling until we finally get into the exam room approximately six years later. I mostly regained composure at that point-- minus one instance of Dan running to the bathroom, then running back into the exam room with a breathless “Did I miss him?” which set me off again.

Once the doc came in, we tried to be more serious and grown-up. We used words like ‘thyroidectomy’ and discussed the importance of calcium levels after surgery. The doc answered all our (very serious! very grown-up!) questions patiently and thoroughly. He then asks us if we have any further questions.

Dan says, “Ooh-- ! Yes. Will I have to shave my beard?”

(Answer: “Tilt back your head for me? -- Nah, we should be fine.”)

I love Dan to pieces. I love his attitude, like this is just another rock to climb in the middle of all our other rock-climbing adventures. And I think it must be contagious, because I’m feeling a little climby about all this myself these days.

"Good Cancer" my ass

Some phrases are nails on a chalkboard. When I was a kid, it was the grown-ups’ substitution of  “We’ll see” for “No, but I don’t want to fight about it right now.” When I got a little older, it was any cop-out relationship phrase like “We have to talk” or “It’s not you, it’s me.” All the obvious lies used as escape hatches.

Last week, I heard the worst yet: “It’s a good cancer.”

Dan found an extra Adam’s apple about a month ago. We got the biopsy results last week. From Dan’s description of the appointment, I imagined the doctor delivering the news to Dan with a hearty handshake -- “Great news! It’s malignant!”

Then I imagined punching her in the nose.

The doctor shooed Dan out the door with an oncologist’s card and parting words like “simple surgery” and “90% cure rate.” She tossed off the same breezy percentage about thyroid nodules when he first went in a month ago-- “Over 90% are benign!” Maybe her nonchalance is supposed to be comforting confidence; I find it dismissive. Now that otherwise-encouraging percentage feels like somebody’s crying wolf.

But then, I’m in the minority. I hate falseness; I’m a straight facts girl. I want to know all the gory details about the hard road. I want to be prepared for that other 10%, just in case. I have a contingency plan for everything.

Dan, on the other hand... when I ask him, “How do they know it hasn’t spread?”-- his answer was a mystified “Huh! I didn’t even think about that!” What? How could you not think about that?

But then-- this is why we’re so damned good together. He lifts me up, and I ground him. He sees the perfect ending and I line up stepping stones to get there.

He was cracking jokes within a few minutes of delivering the word ‘carcinoma’ to our doorstep. Not to purposely lighten the mood, the way I would, but because he’s just really funny. I felt guilty laughing, like we should be more somber. But-- well, he’s right to be normal and funny. I mean, no one died or anything. And 90% is a really high number.

Still-- Dan’s nature baffles me. I’m always asking him about it, trying to figure out how he ticks. Maybe so I can channel some of his unflappable optimism for myself.

“I don’t understand it. How can you be joking? I mean, I love you, but are you in total denial or what?”

“No, no honey. I’m not in denial. I’ve processed it and moved on. We’re already in recovery.”

For Dan, there is no “getting there.” You’re “here” and then you’re “there.” He sees a mountain, he goes toward the mountain; the mountain is all he sees.

My sister says, “Well, they say healing is 90% attitude, and Dan’s got that coming out his ears.”

That’s a 90% I can get behind.

The Rock Whisperer

Instead of one big plot, I'm making little floating veggie gardens using raised beds with rock borders.  Tomatoes here, mesclun greens over there, broccoli and cauliflower nearby, maybe some flowers up front.  Only I ran out of rocks.


My sister suggested using some of Dan's rocks to finish the beds.  He works them into his sculptures, so rows of them march around the perimeter of the yard, waiting for their next incarnation.  Why not stand in as garden borders in the meantime?

I suggested it to Dan;  he's protective of his rocks, and I could tell he was not thrilled at the idea.  "Well.  We could do that I guess.  I'll have to give you a tour about which ones can stand up to being watered."  

I said, "They're rocks.  They live outside.  How can any of them not be watered?  What about when it rains?"  

"That's different."  He is completely serious.

"Honey, that doesn't make sense.  That's like saying some rocks shouldn't be in the sunshine."

"Well, some shouldn't.  But I don't have any of those kinds of rocks."

My relationship philosophy is to respect what's important to the other person, even if I don't agree.  Or (in this case) start laughing too hard to talk coherently any more.

"Well...I don't know what's so funny, honey.  But I love you.  Even though sometimes you don't know about rocks."

Thank god he doesn't take it personally; I'm not laughing at him, exactly... it bubbles up from from the same heartsource that loves him to pieces, and he senses that.  

We decided it would be easier on his nerves to go out and collect rocks specifically to use for the garden.  Rocks that are both water- and sunshine-safe. 

We love Dan

Our bathtub has getting more and more clogged. We've tried every unclogging device and chemical known to man, and still no luck. We started using the kids' shower, only to discover theirs was clogged too; god knows how long it's been like that. Why on earth would they bother telling their parents about such a thing?

Dan had to go under the house to fix the drains, they're too far gone. So, yesterday and today we've been toilet-less; they've been removed and are sitting out in the yard. Luckily, we live only a few houses down from my in-laws, and they've kindly offered to let us use their facilities. They too are familiar with Dan's extended home repair projects.

Whenever Dan has a project, I like to triple his budget estimate and quadruple his time estimate to get a more accurate idea of what we're getting into. The estimate tripling is directly connected to Dan deciding to also do triple the amount of work he initially talks about. He does this every time. The rest of the problem is that we live in an old house, and repairing anything is risky; repairs can compound in seconds, like pulling a thread on a sweater. We start out wanting to bump a wall out 3 feet, no biggie, right? Except then it turns out that behind the drywall all the 2x4's are leaning crookedly and covered in cockroach poo, and the wiring is shot, and the ceiling above the wall isn't real ceiling but instead is just weird pressboard stuff that has old water damage and needs to be entirely replaced at some point so why not do it now instead of ripping the room apart again down the road?

Poor Miss G was out of her room for a month till it was all done. But damn, it's a well-built room now.

Some people hate house projects, but I really love all this. And I love having a house with Dan. I love that the dog keeps going under the house to check on him (and possibly help). I love that Miss G volunteered to bail all the standing water out of the bathtubs. I love that two of Dan's buddies showed up to bring tools over and holler under the house about how he should be doing things instead. I love that he graciously accepted the tools while good-naturedly ignoring their advice, and kept right on plogging away in his coveralls, all cheerful and covered in muck. And I love most of all that about an hour into shoveling dirt and removing pipes, he came back out, took off his coveralls, and went to his folks' house to shower so he could drive his car to his daughter's carwash fundraiser a half-hour away. Then he drove all the way back, got back in the coveralls, and went back under the house.

Dan's ridiculously likable: goofy, furry, optimistic, and the gentlest person I've ever met. He tells terrible jokes, and never raises his voice. He's incapable of being on time to anything, and has a sweet tooth that'd put me into an insulin coma. He gives the girls piggyback rides to bed every single night, and has more patience than any 3 normal people put together. Dan's single crowning trait-- which is subtle, and not appreciated by the world at large, I think-- is simply this: Dan is a good man. There are not many genuinely good people in the world (certainly not here in stupid Las Vegas), but he is one. Dan does not lie, he believes the best in everyone and is embarrassed to find that anyone would think he is a higher-caliber human than most. But he is.

I figured I was biased, so I was relieved to find everyone else in my family is just as nuts about this guy as I am. My cousin has a friend at a silkscreen place and got a bunch of "We love Dan" t-shirts made as a surprise over the summer. She sent me about a dozen; they were all handed out within minutes to many squeals of delight from friends and family. I wear mine all the time. I'm wearing it today, to support his gross under-the-house efforts to make us a good home. I'm wearing it again on Wednesday, when I'll be sitting in the courthouse parking lot waiting to hear the outcome of his custody hearing.

We love Dan.