But on this day, Brandon woke up before I planned.

Brandon isn’t necessarily a morning person, so it was a bit strange for him to be so happily awake. He was lovey and humming and smiling and teasing me from the moment he woke up. And once the morning fuzziness wore off, he started flinging his usual sarcastic and heavy banter.

But me?

I’m not a morning person. Especially now that I’m not sleeping very well. Especially now that I’m carrying nearly 30 extra pounds and everything aches. Especially now that I’m always nauseous in the morning. I just need my space. My quiet. My time to get adjusted to the day.

But when Brandon gets sarcastic, I get sarcastic. And the more sarcastic I am, the more sarcastic he is. It’s a cycle. And usually it’s funny. And usually I can dish it out to him almost as well as he dishes it to me. But this particular morning? I was exhausted. And the more sarcasm bounced around the car on the drive to work, the more exhausted I felt. Sling. Slang. Slam. Words whizzing around me. Got to keep up. Got to be funny. Got to shut him down.

And then he turned the radio on to 95.5, the FISH. Everyday at the same time, Dawn O’Brien gives the weather and says her sign off.

“It’s the daaaaawn of another beeeeeeautiful day in Hawaii Nei.”

Except I absolutely can’t stand the way she says it. It gets under my skin. It makes my eyes twitch. It makes my shoulders cringe. And Brandon knows it, which is why he was turning it on.

When I realized what was happening, I scrambled to try and switch the station, except Brandon wouldn’t let me. He kept blocking my hands and trying to turn up the volume. I could tell she was getting closer to saying it. I was getting more frantic. Brandon was getting more persistent.

Then something snapped in my brain.

I shut down. I stopped functioning. I realized I couldn’t go on. I was weary. Tired. Completely out of energy—and I hadn’t even made it to work yet. I was trying to keep up with Brandon’s teasing for the last 45 minutes, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.

“I can’t DO this anymore!” I yelled and slumped back in the seat. Big, watery tears came streaming out of my face. “I’m TOO pregnant and TOO tired. Can you PLEASE just be NICE to me right now?!”

And the smile on Brandon’s face turned to baffled confusion. His playful wife was just replaced with a soggy lump of mess. It was an instantaneous shift. He never saw it coming. “What is happening?”

“The sarcasm. It’s just too much. I can’t handle it. I need the nice, lovey husband. I’m too pregnant to keep up with your jokes.”

More crying. More sniffling.

So he turned off the radio. And held my hand. And sat quiet. But not without a smirk on his face. Because if I’ve ever had a pregnant moment, this was it. And I wasn’t crying about just anything—I was crying because I couldn’t be as funny as he was.

And every day since that lovely display of hormones, all I have to say when Brandon get’s sarcastic with me is, “Do you want to make me cry again?”

And then I win.

1. Wake up overly tired and go to work a smudge emotional.
2. Get a call from an crabby person in another department who decided fussing and squawking at me was the best way to get me to do something for her.
3. Discover that the online public access catalog (the system that allows faculty and students can search for materials in the library) I’ve been working on for the past few months wasn’t reading the changes I made to the visual search feature. In other words, people won’t be able to search like I planned because I can’t get the system to work.
4. Go for a swig of red cherry pomegranate punch and spill it down the front of my white and green shirt. When it was cleaned up, I endured the embarrassment of having an entirely wet and slightly pink shirt for a fair portion of the day.
5. Get picked up from work by my husband who took me downtown to Gordon Biersch to have dinner with a friend. We found out she couldn’t make it, so we decided we needed to have a date instead.
6. Get seated at a table with wooden chairs, tell the waitress I’m pregnant, and get reseated at a booth with cushy seating.
7. Feel better after eating garlic fries drenched in ranch dressing. Feel even better when I say no to temptation and leave a few on my plate.
8. Make my husband laugh when I spill ranch on my shirt to match my punch stain from earlier.
9. Feel butterflies in my stomach when my husband tells me how beautiful my eyes are in the sunlight on the deck of the restaurant overlooking the water.
10. Decide there must be enough room in my stomach to eat a small dessert—a shot glass full of strawberry cheesecake. Convince my husband that he should get one to, but realize he wants to order the fudge cake shot instead of the brownie mousse shot. I then convince him we need all three desserts if we’re going to be happy.
11. Get a $5 gift certificate to Gordon Biersch after filling out a survey.
12. Get home and decide nothing productive will happen the rest of the night. Which leads to another game of Rummy. Which leads my husband to say, “I’ll only play if you don’t cry this time.” To which I respond, “DEAL. NOW.” And then quit when I have more points.
13. Sleep about 15 extra minutes this morning, but still make it out the door at the same time for work.
14. Call a support guy at the company that provides the online public access catalog and ask him for help with the system failure I discovered yesterday. End the conversation with the good news that he can send me instructions for how to transfer files so the problem can be fixed.
15. Celebrate the solution with a mini Twix brought in by my lovely coworker.

The moral of the story?

A date with my husband makes everything better.

I love you.

Could that phrase possibly encompass all the feelings I have toward you right now? Is it even possible to put to words how thankful I am for you? How I am overwhelmed by you? How my whole world would fall apart if you ceased to be who you are? I am entirely in awe of the constant sacrifices you make just to keep me happy and sane.

This pregnancy has likely been as tough for you as it has for me. Sure, I’m throwing up. I’m exhausted. I’ve got aches in strange places. I’m not sleeping well. I can’t clean or cook or drive myself sometimes. I get out of breath walking down stairs. And lately, I’ve been an emotional wreck. I feel fat. And puffy. I worry about gaining too much weight. Maybe I don’t have scary mood swings, but I’m overly sensitive and take everything personally. I worry about everything and how everyone is feeling. I feel guilt for the things I can’t do and fatigue with the things I can. I’m constantly cranky and unmotivated and overwhelmingly tired.

But you’re the one who has to listen to it—to my stream of complaints—which is sometimes worse then bearing the burden. And you listen without judgment. Your responses are riddled with compliments and encouragement. You’re excited about this stage in our life. You constantly tell me how great I look or how much you love me. And when I ask for the 13th time in one night, “Will you still love me when I’m even fatter and puffier than this?”, you don’t get mad. You don’t get frustrated. You don’t even tease me. You actually pull me close to you and say sweet things like, “Carrie, I’m always going to think you look sexy, especially when you’re pregnant.”

It’s the simple things that make me crazy for you. Like how you’ve done the dishes for the last 3 months without complaint. Or how you make me dinner every single night because you know I can’t stand to smell it. Or how you clean the house or do the laundry or tend the garden. Or how you run to the store for last minute prescription refills so I don’t throw up. Or how you go out of your way to drive me to work and pick me up every day so I don’t have to walk the 10 extra minutes from the parking structure. Or how you go to the grocery store every week to make sure I have snacks. Or how you cancel your plans because you know (without me having to say anything) I’ll be too tired. Or how you’ll even go to bed early because you know I sleep better with you my side—even when you’re not tired.

You must be sick of this. You must be weary. You must grow tired of doing these things constantly for me—week after week. And yet you’re faithful. You expect me to sit on the couch. You want me take naps, even when there are things to do. You keep track of everything from the household chores to the money we’re saving for our baby, all while still working full time on weekends and several evenings. And most of all, you desire nothing from me except to grow this little one inside my womb.

How? How did I get you? How did I snag someone so generous, so self-sacrificing, so compassionate? I certainly don’t deserve you, my sweet husband. And yet, here you are.

Wonderful you.

“I love you” will never be enough after all you’ve given me the last 21 weeks. Thank you, my beloved.

Yours completely,

Wife

Because I got suddenly sick.

And we thought it would be better to stay at home. So I spent the better part of the afternoon sitting in front of the television, wasting away a perfectly good day. I made my bed on the couch, friends.

Although I did get some quality time with Brandon. We’ve both been pretty busy and tired lately. I’ve been finishing up school; he started a new youth group event on Thursday nights. I work during the week; he works on the weekends. We just haven’t had much solid time together. Needless to say, cuddling and conversation ensued. Don’t throw up. It’s sweet.

But because I spent most of the day on the couch, I don’t have much to say in this here post. However, I do have a little treat. Would you like to see what Brandon and I do late at night when we’re cooped up together and half delirious? We sing. And film. And we don’t pretend to be great at it, but we have fun anyway.

Try not to cringe.

Fan self. Squirm in chair. Check racing pulse.

He’s simply magnetic. Handsome to the core. But you know what? He has no idea. He doesn’t realize the power he could have over women. Which makes him more irresistible, am I right?

Women look at him. Often. He’s got one of those faces that reads like a good man. A face that screams, “I’m faithful, gentle, and I’ll love you like a woman should be loved.”

Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised when girls try to flirt with him.

Friday afternoon, Brandon came by my work to help me move furniture for the new library. He parked in the structure, so we had to walk a little ways across campus. We strolled out of the office, hand in hand, talking about where we’d go for dinner. (Friday date night! Yay.) When we got close to the parking lot, I let go of his hand to fish something out of my purse.

In the seconds that it took to drop his hand and busy myself with my belongings, I somehow lost my inherent claim on my dear, sweet, dashingly good looking husband. When I looked up, some young broad was walking toward us. She was beautiful, I’ll admit. Wavy, long blond hair lightly grazing across her face in the wind. Clear blue almond shaped eyes. Subtle makeup to bring out her perky little features. A tiny spattering of freckles on her soft porcelain skin. Skinny jeans that clung irritatingly tight to her curvy hips.

As she came closer to us, her eyes fell on Brandon’s face. I watched her tuck her chin, pout her lips, toss her hair. She looked down. Looked up through her eyelashes. Looked down again. Looked back at him with a light provocative smile. And when she looked for the third time, she threw him that glance girls love to give guys. You know, the one that says, “I’d like to take you home.”

The floozy.

She never even looked at me. Not once. I was standing right next to him. Not a few inches away. Obviously with him. Who did she think I was? Nobody? I just happened to be walking at the same pace? Was I just some random obstacle in between her lusty glances and my my husbands handsome face?

I felt my face melt into a mean looking stink-eye. Watched myself punch her in the eye. Pull her flowy hair. Kick her in the shin. Wrestle her to the ground and make her promise not to ever look in his direction again. Does she think she can step up on my man? I DON’T THINK SO. We strapping viking women aren’t afraid to get a little rough.

Except I obviously didn’t do those things. I mostly just furrowed my eyebrows and stood with my mouth gaping open at her audacity. WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS?

Where was Brandon in all this? He was pretty oblivious to the first two glances. I watched as he made eye contact with her on that third and final look. And you know what? He just sort of half smiled, mostly in confusion. Like he couldn’t understand what just happened. When she brushed by us, Brandon turned to me with this incredulous look on his face, like “Did you just see what that girl did?”

Like I could miss it.

And then I did what any wife would do. I smacked him on the chest for being so good-looking. If he can’t keep girls from undressing him with their eyes, then he needs to wear a bag over his head. It’s that simple.

On a related note, I will now be holding his hand everywhere we go, whether he likes it or not.

Did you know? Did you realize how loved I felt yesterday?

You spent 3 hours helping me study. Three hours listening to my speeches. Three hours critiquing my responses. Three hours wiping my frustrated tears. I know you wanted to nap. To play video games. To watch Olympics. To do anything but academics, especially on a Sunday. But you didn’t. You chose to help me, to guide me, to console me.

Did you know it was the fastest way to my heart?

You could buy me red roses. You could take me to fancy dinners. You could put diamonds on my fingers and pearls in my ears. But you know what? I don’t need them. Your actions say it all. You support me—what could show your love better?

When we were first married—a month into our marriage—I wrote a list of things I cherish about you. It went something like this:

He is faithful to me.

He is generous.

He is willing to serve.

He wants to do what God would have him do.

He seeks to please me.

He would have nothing to do with other women.

He shines as a husband.

He honors me.

He admits when he’s wrong.

He would give the world to make sure I know I’m beautiful.

He is thoughtful.

He is artistic and romantic.

He has enormous faith in God.

He loves me for me.

And you know what? Four years later, this list is still true. You are consistent, my darling. You are a man of worth, of value. And you are mine? I can hardly believe it.

Thank you, dear husband, for all that you do. How can I repay you for your kindness? Your faithfulness? Your devotion?

What’s that? A baby? You want to get pregnant right now? Hmm. Let’s just get through the week and see where we’re at. What about a chocolate chip cookie instead? Will that suffice? Fresh out of the oven. Just for you, darling. I know you love them.

I love you deeply,

Wife.

“You’re on Friday 6:15 sunset for two.” Excuse me, what? Really?

I didn’t mean to see it. I was just being a good little wife, bringing him his phone. Wouldn’t you glance at it to see who it was from? How was I supposed to know I shouldn’t look at it? Especially since he told me the day before that we weren’t even going to bother exchanging love notes this year. But dinner? Sunset? For two? Somebody was being sneaky and it wasn’t me. Not this time.

That perfect husband of mine planned a fancy dinner—the first since our anniversary of year one. And by fancy, I mean we weren’t allowed to color on the table with crayons. And as long as we’re talking about that, I think I should come clean and say I don’t know how to be fancy. Our idea of a big night out is usually Outback Steakhouse and a movie. We aren’t big spenders, so we aren’t used to places where we have to where high heels and ties. Halfway into dinner, I noticed we weren’t as talkative as normal. We weren’t making jokes. We were almost uncomfortable. Like we had to be formal with each other since we were in a formal place. It was really bugging me. Why did we have to feel fake?

Do you want to know what loosened us up a bit? It wasn’t the wine. Although I drank a whole glass of wine for the first time in my life. (Never developed a taste for it, which always made me feel like a kid.) It was because I made Brandon laugh. And it came out weird because he was trying to keep it calm and sophisticated. It was kind of a breathy, grunty “huuh.” And then I laughed really loudly because it sounded so weird. But you know what? Nobody looked at me funny. It was fine. And then I realized I was paying for the meal with my first child and I should be allowed to laugh loudly and even fart if I wanted because they aren’t the boss of me even if they are fancy.

Moving on.

The restaurant was Italian. Just like my handsome man here. Isn’t he dashing in his clean shaven face and button up shirt and tie? He done good. He done real good.

Our friend Lance (who sent the text message I saw by accident), is friends with the manager, so he hooked us up. We got the sunset table, right over the water. Here is the panoramic:

Excuse me, but they gave us free salad. Free. Like we were important or something.

Brandon had the Filet Mignon with whipped Yukon potatoes under a red wine reduction sauce. I would have taken a bite, until Brandon cut it open and it started mooing at me.

I almost tried Mahi Mahi. Especially since 94% of the menu is seafood. Also, this has been a season of trying new things. But the problem is that I am also practical to a fault. I wasn’t about to buy a $35 plate of fish, take one bite and then throw up. What a waste.

I ordered the Rigatoni ala Vodka. It had pancetta in the sauce. Delish. The pasta was just a smidge al dente. I love a little crunch to my pasta.

Guess what? The restaurant comped us a dessert. A dessert that wasn’t on the menu. It was strawberries drizzled in chocolate sauce. But get this, our dessert was on fire! It’s true. The waiter came out with a wine glass full of Bacardi 151 and Blue Curacao, set it on fire and dazzled us with his fiery skills. To eat it, we had to pick up the fruit, while it was still on fire, and dip it in brown sugar or devonshire cream to put it out.

It was the most fun I’ve had eating dessert in a while. And I eat a lot of dessert. I am Swedish after all.

And did I mention? Fireworks. At the end of our meal. There may or may not have been more fireworks later.

It was a really good surprise. Really good. Probably our best date in a long time. Probably our last date like that for a long time. He done good. He done real good.

Just a couple things:

1. Your computer volume is working, there just isn’t any sound. Just like it is in real life. I love it because it’s like we’re actually there in the moment.
2. The kiss takes about 40 seconds of staring. That is uncomfortable. Painfully long. And I love it because I don’t know any other movie kiss that builds as much anticipation.
3. The kiss lasts about 3 seconds. Soft. Sweet. Gentle. Full of passion without a lot of action. I love it because of its simplicity.

Keep that in mind when I tell you: my first kiss with Brandon was exactly the opposite.

Our first kiss was unexpected. At least, not at that very moment. It was during the summer we first met, and I wasn’t even sure he liked me. Brandon was over at my dorm to watch a movie and needed a ride home. We had been flirting for at least a week by now, so I volunteered. Four days was all I had left in Hawaii. Just 4 days, and I didn’t think I was ever coming back. I was getting anxious. Does he like me? Am I going to see him again? Why doesn’t he just make a move? I had to think of something quick. He lived just 5 minutes down the road, and I needed to get him alone to see how he felt. So I asked, “Do you guys have any bluffs or anything that would give us a good view of the island?”

Good excuse, right?

He smiled. I blushed. And then he told me to turn up this winding road to a place called Tantalus, overlooking the Honolulu area. But when we got there, the gate was locked to incoming vehicles. No matter. He told me to park down the road a bit and we’d hike up. And then I learned “hike up” really meant “jump a steal fence and dart behind trees on our way to the top.” Because it was federal land. And we were breaking the law. You should know, it is fun to break the law with a boy.

When we got to the top, we saw this. Romantic, isn’t it? (This is an actual picture from that night.)

We leaned against the rail, not really knowing what to say. Looking at the lights. Looking at the curve of the ocean. Grazing elbows softly in the dark. He wouldn’t look at me—completely uncomfortable, tense even. He barely talked to me from the time we left the car to the time we reached the railing. It was awkward. And I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake. A humiliating mistake. Was I moving too fast? Did he not want to get involved? Was I reading the signals wrong?

I then reached out my hand to touch his back. Maybe it would ease his tension? Help him relax a bit?

And without even one word, one glimpse, one hesitation, he spun quickly on his heal, grabbed my waist, and pulled me tight against him. Before I even had a chance to realize what happened, he kissed me. Hard. Right on the mouth. Like he’d been waiting to do it for weeks and finally found the courage. It was intense. Dramatic. Solid. It was a rugged, manly kiss. He knew what he wanted and he took it.

When he pulled back, he softened a bit and smiled at me. I just stood there shocked. A little numb and tingly, I’ll admit. I had wanted him to kiss me all night, and when he finally did, it knocked me off balance. It was different. Different then other first kisses. Different because he didn’t assume I would want to kiss him. He wasn’t expecting it from me. He was quiet all night because he was trying to find courage—to talk himself into it. He didn’t know I’d want to kiss him back, which is why it was so hearty. He was jumping in with both feet and taking full responsibility. Like a man should.

It was unexpected in delivery. The kiss in Dear Frankie is incredibly sweet and soft and full of anticipation. It is my ideal kiss. But I needed something different with Brandon. I needed him to take charge and show me he was the man I’d been looking for. I needed him to catch my attention. Which proves the point that what we think we want and what we actually want are quite different. It also proves that the unexpected is often more fruitful than the planned—something I need more in my life.

Happy Valentine’s. I hope you find the unexpected.

When we are together, I do not drive. But you should know, I am not a good passenger.

I am the passenger who monitors the speedometer. Who keeps one hand on the side handle. Who digs her nails into the dash board. Who gasps when the car 50 paces ahead of us breaks. Who points out whenever someone switches lanes within a 20 foot radius of the car. Who pumps the invisible brake when we aren’t slowing fast enough.

And it drives Brandon up the wall.

Just to clear things up, I’m not the better driver. I rammed into my pastor’s car 4 days after getting my permit. I backed into a truck two weeks later. I got two speeding tickets within one month in college. I dove underneath an SUV on my way to meet my future mother-in-law, totaled my car, and was later sued for the same accident. And just 8 months ago I did the same thing all over again.

I have good reason for being a little jumpy.

So I was thankful for Brandon this Saturday night when we almost died. We were on our way home late from visiting with some friends and two particularly chubby baby boys. Because there is never a time in Hawaii when the roads are not completely and irritatingly clogged with cars, we were in thick downtown traffic. I was arguing with Brandon about the music, because we don’t get in the car without fighting for the controls. (Doesn’t the passenger have full reign over the music? Isn’t that the rule?)

Out of no where, Brandon slams hard on the brakes. Swerves to the left next painfully close to the center divider. Screeching. Pitching forward. Full body tension. Nails digging into plastic. Wide, round eyes. Hair in my face. Possibly a curse word or two. (Or possibly not because we are a pastor and his wife and never even think such things. Ahem.)

Apparently some big, burley truck decided he did not like how slow his lane was progressing. He didn’t bother looking into the heavy traffic to see if the road was clear, because let’s face it, he could roll over us like a Walmart speed bump. He swerved into the middle lane and the poor volvo in the middle lane swerved into us. We were going slow enough for heavy congestion, but fast enough to do some real damage.

But miracle of all miracles, not one car kissed. We all swerved to the left like a line dance. Brandon and I sat there shocked for a moment and then I thought 3 things:

1. Thank you Jesus for not taking me home just yet.
2. Had we gotten in the accident, we would not only fail to come up with the money to fix it, but we would also have no car during the time it took to fix in the shop. (This is a one car family.) No car means no work transportation. So thank you Jesus again for protecting our finances during tax season.
3. Thank you Jesus that Brandon was driving.

Because for all Brandon’s wild driving antics, he is excellent in high pressure situations. He is relaxed, quick-thinking, able-minded. And he has a lot of practice weaving and swerving.

And let’s face it. I’m delicate. Fragile. And I hold the key to his future fatherhood. He can’t just pick me up and throw me across the room the way he’d like to. No matter how manly—my tears mess him up. But there’s a catch. We have a pool. In the pool, all code of etiquette is thrown out. And I’m thrown out with it. Dunking. Throwing. Flipping. Twisting. Tossing. I’m lucky if I get a breath.

So I know better than to get close to Brandon in the pool. But his cousin? Oh dear. Oh my. His cousin lives far, far away. It was just a family vacation to Hawaii. A quick visit. A catch up. How could he know? He doesn’t know Brandon like I know Brandon. He didn’t understand.

It seemed innocent enough at first. He just went to give Brandon a friendly nudge. A splash here. A bump there. But then he latched onto Brandon’s neck.

Oh dear. Brandon wouldn’t have it. Get out, cousin! Get away! Run while you can!

He tried. Really tried to escape. But just look at the determination on Brandon’s face. The ferocity. The desire to give what was coming to him. He’s reaching for the knees to get him off balance.

Too late for our dear cousin. There he goes. Man down. Man down.

And here it comes. The Full Nelson.

Don’t even bother, cousin. It’s no use. You’re done. You’re going down. Those manly arms are too much. He’s too strong. Mmm. Much too strong. Sigh. Fan self.

It’s a solid grip. He’s going to—wait a minute. Wait just a second. What is that? Is that what I think it is? There on his back. Do you see it? Could it be? It must be my eyes.

Flipped. Twisted. Tossed up. Slammed down into the water at full force. It was all over. He didn’t stand a chance.

Did you happen to notice his face? Just look at him. Absolutely loving it. Scoping out his next victim. And where was I? Laying out dry on a beach chair cataloging the whole thing. Dry. And safe. Admiring from afar. Just like I like to be. Did I mention I love when family comes to visit?