Dear Andy While You Sleep

by Brittany on March 20, 2014

in Love, Marriage

Monday I rolled over in bed to come face to face with my little doll-faced cherub. I am keenly aware of the imaginary clock ticking above our heads, and our time of morning time girl snuggles are fleeting. I touched my finger to her warm little nose and she opened her heavy eyes, smiled softly, and then vomited directly into my open mouth, hair and pillow. I can never eat Sweet & Sour Chicken again. That’s a lie, but I can assure you it will be a while.

An hour later Andy called, he’d lost a co-worker unexpectedly and it jarred him. I don’t handle death or emotions well, I become physically uncomfortable and I never know what to do with my hands. Plus, when Andy’s normally chill and even-keeled demeanor changes, it freaks me out, only one of us can be unstable in this relationship and I am used to that person being me. My immediate response was to begin making cakes, because I feel like cakes are better than crying.

Wednesday and three thrown away puke pillows later, Ohio’s latest snow storm sent a giant tree through our roof and into our garage.

We are coming off quite a shit fest, y’all. And Andy, he’s handled it like a champ. And by that, I mean he’s mostly taken all my phone calls at work, and talked me through mature and complicated things like obtaining contractor quotes and not punching insurance adjusters.

And for that, there are so many things I want to tell him, it’s just that every time I try, I get all weepy and choked up like I’m watching the wedding scene in The Muppets Take Manhattan.

So I’ve decided to wait until he’s asleep.

dad and gi


You are a really great dad. I know I got you a card saying this exact thing last Father’s Day, but it bears repeating, because before Jude came out, I did not have high hopes for us as parents. But, we rocked it out, and I’ll never admit this to your face, but you are so totally a better parent than me. You are more patient, and more logical, and you grow way better beards. I know it kills you every morning you have to walk out that door and I get to stay, but please know that I work all hours of the day just so that one day, you don’t have to leave anymore.

I broke our microwave. Only the middle line of number buttons work now, so you can only microwave food for times consisting of 2, 5, 8, and 0. Or use any of the specialty buttons. For example, if you want to reheat your Indian take-out, hit the Popcorn button once. If you want to heat up soup, hit the Popcorn button once, and then when it feels like it’s been in there roughly half the time, open the door and take it out. If you leave it in for a full Popcorn, you’ll burn your tongue and food will be ruined for you for at least a week. If you want to heat up a Hot Pocket, don’t, because you’ll have diarrhea all night and I’ll never heard the end of it. However, I recently read an article about how microwaves are killing us, so maybe I’ve done us all a favor. Honestly, you’re lucky to have me.

Sometimes I hate you for making me feel so beautiful. I can only stand here today and love me because you propped me up for 15 years until I was strong enough to do it myself, and it secretly hate that I’ll never be able to do anything as epic for you. I’ve been robbed of any hopes to win the award for best spouse, and all I can do in return is give you beautiful children and trim your eyebrows, and it never feels enough. Here’s this coupon I made you for free blow jobs.

Also, thank you for being patient with me as I’ve learned how to be an adult. It’s taken me longer than you, and you never make me feel bad about that.

Lastly, I wrote you this poem: You do something to me that I can’t explain. Hold me closer and I feel no pain. Every beat of my heart we got something going on. Tender love is blind, it requires a dedication. All this love we feel, needs no conversation. We can ride it together, ah-ha. Making love with each other, ah-ha. Islands in the stream, that is what we are. No one in between, how can we be wrong. Sail away with me, to another world. And we rely on each other, ah-ha. From one lover to another, ah-ha… okay I didn’t actually write that. It’s Islands In The Stream by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, but it felt applicable here.


We love the sun.

We love the water.

We sometimes forget to shave that one strip on the back of our legs.

And we worry like hell about what the other women at the beach think of us, because the honest to God truth is, forget the men, we judge each other the hardest.  There are entire magazines and blogs and fashion shows on E! dedicated to it. It’s pretty gross and archaic, and yet we never learn and we never stop.

So you see, skinny girls, we are the same. We are a sisterhood of women who fight to like ourselves in a deeply unlikable environment, who experience more body shaming than celebrating, and who- okay fine- enjoy high waisted jeans way more than any of us care to admit out loud.

You know a remarkable thing happened last year after I climbed my metaphorical “bikini mountain.” I haven’t been able to put a one piece bathing suit on since.

Curvy Girl Bikini Love

And why the hell should I? Bikinis make me feel sexy and feminine and I can pee so much easier. Sure my parts jiggle around a bit and my thighs touch, but in the name of Kate Upton, fuck yes. Do I have insecurities? Sure, but when I’m swimming through cool water, or brushing the sand of my skin, or admiring the tan lines I have that no longer resemble an over-sized men’s t shirt, they’re fleeting.

I was recently packing for Florida, and as I haphazardly tossed warm weather items into the open suitcase on my bed, my mom wrinkled her nose and asked why I would take a bikini on a family vacation. My answer was simple, because there would be a pool. I’m not selectively proud of my body, but if there was ever a time to openly relish feeling womanly and strong, it’s in front of my kids and on the off chance that I might see any other woman who wakes up that morning needing to see someone who looks like me to make it feel okay to look like her.

This year I stand before you with 10 lbs more ass and 20 lbs more swim suit confidence, which happens to be a pretty amazing ratio, especially as far as my boobs are concerned.

Polka Dot Bikini

Black Polka Dot Bikini, Lands’ End Top: size 14 /Bottom: size 16

This bikini feels retro glam, a look I’m very much digging this season. And it’s also a great excuse to wear red lipstick to the pool.  Of all the bikini tops I’ve tried on, this style is consistently the most comfortable non-underwire I’ve come across, that still offers some level of actual support. The bottoms are a little lower than my brain is used to processing, but hey, a little above the butt dimple never hurt anybody.

Here is to 2014, another year for us to join up, put our insecurities aside, and rock out with our stretchmarks out.

Feeling nostalgic? Click here to see the evolution of my swimsuit confidence!


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