Mr. Brown Eyes has a dream. A dream of taking his boys (and possibly girls--but let's not go there) out on fishing trips. A dream of spending all day on a glassy lake, camo hats pulled down over their eyes, talking about whatever it is boys talk about while they wait for the biggest, plumpest fish to bite so they can bring them home and cook them for me.
Or maybe he intends to bring them home and make me cook them.
Either way is fine. I'm a proud veteran of fish-gutting. Ok, I've only done it once, but I was pretty awesome at it and only got a little squeamish. And a little sad when we discovered that one of the fish was full of eggs. I felt bad that we had deprived her of becoming a mother. But she sure tasted delicious.
Anyway, when Mr. Brown Eyes told me his dream I melted a little and pretty much became putty in his hands. Which was probably his plan all along. When he found the perfect fishing boat--at a perfect deal, I might add--there was no way I could say no and deny all our future sons those special outings on the lake with their dad.
I'm a sucker.
Baby Brown Eyes is all ready for his fishing trips with daddy.
|What a stud, huh?
After one long, hot day out on the lake, we brought Buella in and decided to stop for icecream on our way to the friends' house where Mr. Brown Eyes kept his boat. I hadn't eaten much all day, and slurped my icecream down in no time flat. Which I regretted the minute I climbed back into Mr. Brown Eyes' truck.
I had a bellyache. You know. The kind where you need a bathroom. FAST.
Mr. Brown Eyes and I hadn't been dating very long. We were no where near the comfort level we're on now, where burps and farts are rewarded with a laugh and a "good job." I certainly did not feel comfortable discussing my bodily functions with him. But we had a fairly long drive ahead of us, and this was not something I could just ignore and hope it would go away. It was either tell Mr. Brown Eyes about it or have an accident all over the seat of his truck.
I tried to tell him without telling him too much. "Are your friends home?" I asked. "I, uh, really have to use the bathroom."
"They should be," he replied.
But when we got there, we found the driveway empty and the door locked. My heart fell. But I didn't want to tell Mr. Brown Eyes the seriousness of my situation. Convinced I could wait until we got to my house, I paced back and forth as Mr. Brown Eyes put Buella away. He was taking his sweet time. And I knew I was not going to make it another fifteen minutes.
I caved. "I really have to go to the bathroom," I told him, grimacing against the pain in my belly. "Like right now."
He didn't laugh or screw up his face in disgust. He just thought hard, said, "There's a Wal-Mart up the street," and helped me into his truck. I jumped out as soon as he pulled up in front of the store and ran inside.
I was gone for a long time. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, much relieved, I saw him patiently waiting for me by the doors. I worried that he would make fun of me, or refuse to touch me, or tell me that I was gross and he didn't want to date me anymore, after all.
Instead he just took my hand and asked, "Feel better?"
I smiled sheepishly. "Much."
Then we climbed back into his truck and went on with our lives. He didn't even make fun of me about it until months later. And for that, he won another little piece of my heart.
Any suggestions on a name for our new boat?
The fish-gutting queen,
The Brown-Eyed Girl