Lights out?

The differences between men and women, or at least between my husband and I become more and more clear the longer we are married. As eight years have passed, and children have been added to our family, the 'real' Scott and Tami have come out. That subject could fill dozens of blog posts, but that's not what I'm really writing about tonight.

A realization came to both me and Scott this week. We have vastly different styles of managing the various happenings that occur in the middle of the night at our house. It is not unusual for both of us to be up at different times during the night- I handle newborn needs, and he generally takes care of the three older kids when they have a bad dream, need to visit the bathroom, or fail to visit the bathroom (this usually takes a team of two parents, though).

When I get up with Caroline, I silently make my way out our room, across the hall into her room. Then I feed her, change her diaper, burp her, put her back to bed, get a drink of water, and head back to bed. I do this all in the dark, not wanting anyone else in the house to wake up (especially not one of the other children). The next morning, Scott does not usually remember me getting up.

On the other hand, when Scott gets up with one of the kids, our house comes to life. First our bathroom light goes on- wouldn't want to trip on the way to our bedroom door. Then comes the hall light. (Right outside our bedroom door.) Next is the hall bathroom light (about two feet down the hallway from our room).

By now I am wide awake, wondering if Jesus has come back (and why do I feel so tired if the rapture has happened and I'm on my way to heaven and I guess the dispensationalists were right after all). When I come to my senses and realize that no, it isn't the rapture, it's only Scott taking Carter back to bed after a bad dream, I first fight the urge to yell, "Turn the lights out, what is your problem?!" and then I am really overcome with thankfulness that Scott has taken care of a child in the middle of the night without meaning to wake me up. Thanks, honey!

Even though I do wake up with the light pouring onto my pillow, Scott always pops right out of bed at the first sound of an older child, he seldom asks me for help in getting them settled back down, and the next morning he never complains about any of it, even though he gets up far earlier than I do and keeps the kids quiet while I feed the baby and fight for a few more minutes of sleep.

And that is why I love him.

A night of torture, I mean togetherness, I mean cable tv

We recently signed up for cable tv. We have considered this decision for a few months, beginning with the four months I spent in bed from exactly the time Scott got home from work until the next morning, otherwise known as The First Trimester of each of my pregnancies.

The in between time since then has been well spent reading in the evenings, talking, and watching network tv a couple of nights a week. Now that summer is here and the networks are full of horrible judging programs showcasing the best of the best in the worlds of dancing, singing, comedy, and making stuff no one wants or needs, our options have been limited.

Also factoring into our decision is the fact that I am becoming less and less productive and energetic, if that were at all possible (those of you who know me know exactly what I'm talking about). My couch time is on the increase, and is showing signs of a continual upward climb.

In other words, it's time to provide the pregnant lady with some wholesome quality entertainment, which includes watching men with mustaches cussing each other out while they make motorcycles, all eight (or 15) years of Law and Order, or the life cycles of pond-dwelling animals such as frogs and salamanders (had to spell check that one- see what too much tv does to your brain?).

So, in light of all this cable goodness, why would my husband subject me to watching Steven Segal do karate on bad-guy cowboys, on this our inaugural evening of the loveliness which is cable tv?

We could be discovering what kind of weather the fine folks in Lincoln, Nebraska will be enjoying tomorrow, or ordering new pots and pans designed by a celebrity chef, or finding out the answers to the important questions in life, like how are Jolly Ranchers made.

But instead it looks like I'll be enjoying watching an aging, pony-tailed man in a tight all-black outfit karate chopping in slow motion while dodging rattlesnakes. And let me tell you, it is riveting. Of course, it could be COPS reruns. And I could be by myself instead of relaxing with the man who is the love of my life and whose decision it was to get me cable in the first place.

I guess I'll suck it up and enjoy the show, or at least pretend to.