Living In Sin

Hey there! I'm alive.  I've just been napping or something.  Mr. Boyfriend and I celebrated an anniversary of sorts yesterday.  (Don't worry, babe, you're not in trouble for not getting me anything.)  He and I have been officially shacking up together for two whole years. I feel like such an *gulp* adult.  Even more adult like of me?  We just renewed our lease for two more years.  *Double gulp*.  I gulp because of the adult-ness of the situation, not because I'm nervous about being contractually bound to doing his laundry for two more years.  Moving in with him was honestly the easiest decision I have ever made. 

It just made sense.  I love him and don't like being away from him.  He loves me, and was probably out of clean socks that day.  Worked out perfectly.  Anywho, instead of panicking a bit over doing what any late twenty something year old female would do and living with their S.O. of over three years, I decided to focus on the fact that I actually live with a child. 

With my wacky schedule, that dude up there is left to get into any kind of shennigans his little heart desires four nights a week.  To avoid being a psycho girlfriend, I don't insist he call me as soon as he walks in the door, or send me constant check-ins via text.  I lie, I require check-ins if it's raining out side, because I don't know how not to worry.  I usually do get a 'good night' phone call or text because he either wants to talk to me or wants to avoid me turning into a crazy face.  Either way, it keeps me happy.  Last night was one of those nights I required a text or phone call.  The weather was just fine, so fine actually, that he wanted to ride his skateboard to a friend's house.  And since he's not my child and I can't wrap him in bubble wrap and glue a helmet to his head, I needed to know when he was home, safely.

I can't say that I've seen an adult riding a skateboard that didn't involve millions of dollars in sponsorship money.  Ever.  He also had me find his backpack for him before his little joy ride. 

We've recently had an unusual amount of Nerf gun usage in our love shack this week.  It started out innocent enough, with a friend bringing his cute little kids over last weekend and it being a little inappropriate for us to continue letting them play with dog toys.  So, babe broke out the Nerf gun to give them something to play with.  Problem is, the Nerf gun hasn't been put back up.  In fact, it is now used to discipline the kiddos.  Ok, that one was a collaborative effort.  I didn't feel like getting up to make the cat stop doing whatever thing she wasn't supposed to be doing, and he suggested I shoot Olive with the Nerf gun.  Bad parenting?  Maybe.  Effective?  Sort of.  Fun?  Absolutely.

The last time he did some solid grocery shopping, he came back with roughly enough Popsicles to last us through the Apocalypse, and we're still working on two gallons of maple syrup from last year.

Ok, turns out, I don't have as much content for this post as I thought I would.  If he ever decided to start a blog though, he could write for days on how he lives with a child.  I'm pretty sure he has actually had to tie my shoes for me once. 

So, hang on, honey!  Here comes two more years of wondering how exactly I survived before I lived with you, and how exactly it is you come home to me still alive, breathing, and without my head caught in something each time you leave me alone for the weekend.  If my calculations are correct, we get three pets for every two years of domestic bliss.  I would like a guinea pig or a ball python next, please. 

Hmmm, maybe one of those could be the present you should have gotten me to celebrate.