The Husband: Boys – I Highly Recommend Em’

In addition to my occupation as a devoted and loving husband to dreadlock girl, I am also employed as a wise, patient father of two small boys - Jackson and Oliver. Although, if you were to ask them to describe my parenting abilities, they might not use the words "wise" and "patient." They'd probably say something more along the lines of "silly bottom" and "diaper head." ("Diaper head," by the way, is term of deep respect and reverence in Jackson and Oliver's vocabulary.)

Now, don't get me wrong - all children are gifts from God. And little girls are sweet and they smell nice and they are always smiling and the way that their dresses swish about is truly delightful. But there are some very distinct advantages to parenting boys. If you do not yet own a small boy, let me share three of the more tangible benefits with you:

1. Boys are economical. There are really only a few essential supplies that you need to care for a small boy: a pair of jeans (patch as necessary); a t-shirt (dark-colored to hide stains); a box of instant oatmeal; and some jelly beans. You can raise a fine young man without having to buy much else. Any other nutrients that he might need he will get from eating dirt (which he will do whether you like it nor not) and from licking the slide at the playground. You can buy more clothes if you want, but I'm telling you, after one day on a small boy all clothes look the same - dirty. If you really need some wardrobe variety, you can always turn the t-shirt and jeans inside out.

2. Boys are low-maintenance. A few Saturdays ago our family spent a fabulous afternoon at my grandparent's cattle ranch. Jackson and Oliver, clad in rubber boots, stomped and jumped in mud puddles and cow pies - frequently ending up on their backsides. At one point during the day they smeared mud on their faces for "war paint." Jackson got his head caught in a cow fence. It was a fine outing.

But I'm not going to lie to you, on the way home, Jackson and Oliver smelled a little like, well, cow manure. They didn't reek of it; it was more like well-applied cologne. There was the essence, the hint, of cow manure about them. By the time we pulled into our driveway, it was very late and both boys were almost asleep so we sent them straight to bed. The next morning we had to wake them up early for church, and there just wasn't time to give them a bath before we rushed out the door.

The conclusion that you are about to draw is correct: I dropped my two sons off at Sunday school that morning smelling of cow poo. I own up to it. But here's the thing - no one cared. No one noticed. Little boys are supposed to smell. In fact, all of the little boys in Sunday school that morning smelled of one thing or another. Now, you just try taking a little girl to Sunday school smelling like cow manure and see what happens.

3. Boys are intellectually stimulating. The other evening I was enjoying a quiet night at home with Jackson and Oliver. The three of us sat in front of a blazing fire in the living room, the two boys wrapped in warm blankets. All was peaceful and quiet. And then Oliver, with a deeply philosophical look on his face, asked the following question: "Dad, what would happen if we threw a monkey into this fire?"

If you had offered me the choice that night between dinner with the President of United States and a rigorous discussion with my sons about the possible outcomes of tossing a monkey into a fire, I don't think I need to tell you which I would choose. It is a conversation that I will remember until the end of my dying day.

And so, for those of you who are considering picking one or two up, I hope I've clued you in to the considerable perks that come with having small boys in your household. Just be prepared to adopt "diaper head" as your new name.

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The Husband: love and mathematics

You may be wondering how a guy like me ended up with dreadlock girl. The answer is simple mathematics.

I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Bethany and I fell in love in a math class for dumb people. We were both in college, both terrible at math, and we both needed to pass calculus in order to graduate. Well, it turns out they have a special class for people like that. The professor talks really slow and loud and uses big hand gestures.

So Bethany and I ended up together in the front row of this class. We already knew each other from church, although we hadn't spoken much before. I think Bethany said "hi" to me on a Sunday morning once, my reaction being to run away giggling like a little school girl. But we suddenly found ourselves with three hours every week to get acquainted (because goodness knows we weren't paying any attention to the professor).

Before I go any further with this story, let me clarify an important detail. At this point in her life, Bethany was not dreadlock girl. She was punk girl. She had short, spikey hair that changed to a different neon color every few days. She had sharp pieces of metal stuck in both her eyebrows, her nose and her lip. She wore lots of camo. To say that I was attracted to all of this is a serious understatement. I was, shall we say, smitten.

As the days wore on, I felt a growing need to express my affection for Bethany in some tangible way. I wanted her to know that I like, you know, liked her. And so one morning as the professor shouted to us about irregular hypotenuses or something like that, I went for it. Bethany had an open bottle of Snapple next to her (cranberry flavor, I believe). At one point she put her pencil down and bent over to get something out of her bag. When she sat back up, the pencil was, get this, IN the Snapple bottle. Brilliant, right?

No. Not brilliant. Bethany did not think my flirtatious little joke was cute or charming. She thought it was juvenile and even a little bit alarming. She asked me to please not do anything like that again.

But, of course, I didn't learn. I just can't help it - my love has a tendency to express itself in awkward ways. On our first date, for example, I placed a large dead salmon on Bethany's front step, rang the doorbell and ran away (an absolutely true story). This got pretty much the same reaction as the "pencil in the Snapple" trick, only this time there was yelling involved.

After eight wonderful years of marriage, I have calmed down considerably and, in fact, my attempts to show affection to my wife are basically normal. Why, just the other day I brought her a lovely bouquet of flowers. But our anniversary is coming up, and writing this post has got me thinking that it might be time to spice things up a bit. I was thinking about possibly tricking her into believing that it's our tenth anniversary.

This wouldn't be terribly difficult to do. After all, dreadlock girl is terrible at math.

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The Husband

My husband Brad has decided to keep a blog, now that he is done with grad school and aching to write non-business/non-school stuff for a change. I know you'll love what he has to say, he will have you laughing your socks off while he makes you think at the same time. Anyway there is a new tab under my header that will take you directly to his blog, but I will post them here on this main blog as well that way you won't miss out at all!!

Anyway, so this is his first post at The Husband, isn't he the sweetest thing ever!?! Read away:

About The Husband

Howdy there. My name is Brad and I am the proud husband of Bethany, the dreadlock girl. Like you, I am a loyal follower of Bethany's blog. Unlike you, I am married to Bethany, which gives me a peculiar, insider's perspective on what happens behind the scenes in the dreadlock girl's household.

If you read Bethany's blog very much, you might have the idea that she is a sort of hippie wonder lady - constantly baking wonderful, delicious treats, devising brilliant schemes to beautify her home, devouring books like a lunatic, and training for marathons. Well, let me clue you in to the truth. Bethany IS a hippie wonder lady. Every time I turn around there is a delicious treat coming out of the oven, a brilliant scheme being devised to beautify our home, a book being devoured in lunatic fashion, or a marathon being trained for.

But here's the part that Bethany doesn't tell you about in her blog: She does all of these things while at the same time taking care of a clumsy, slightly deranged husband who is constantly spilling things, accidentally knocking things over or catching things on fire, and generally complicating Bethany's life. When the husband isn't causing problems for Bethany, chances are very good that he is either a) rummaging through the kitchen cupboards like a grouchy bear looking for snack food or b) taking a nap (usually in that order).

And so Bethany and I have agreed to introduce this new page on her blog, called the "the husband," for the purpose of providing an alternative perspective. Once a week or so I will do my best to give you a behind-the-scenes peek into the dreadlock girl world. Or at least I will do that in the beginning and then after a while I'll probably just start writing about whatever I darn well feel like - which will often involve monkeys or accidents with power tools (and every once in a while both at the same time).

I hope you'll take the time to check this page every now and again. If nothing else, it will cause you to appreciate the dreadlock girl even more. And now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go eat some leftover Easter candy and take a nap.

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