Eric is standing here, trying to get my attention by flexing his calves.

This must be some sort of ancient mating ritual, revisited.




(I think I'm just going to write about every strange thing Eric does. "This is going to backfire on you, my dear Andi. People are going to think you married a buffoon." -Eric)

Bjerkaas bachelor pad...

I married a nearly 35-year-old bachelor.

And it’s so, so clear sometimes.

The other night, he brought potato chips into bed. I guess he thought one special treat—the mere having of potato chips in this Bjerkaas household—called for another.

I mean, honestly, who in their right mind thinks they can bring potato chips into bed?

Every time I rolled over onto a fresh crumble of chip shards… I wondered that very thing. With increasing emotion.

And, what’s with the toilet seat? We dated for how long? (OK, not that long…) And I was over here how many times?! (OK, not too terribly many times…) And never was I faced with the gaping ugliness of the toilet seat being up.

That first week we were married? Must’ve happened half a dozen times. (Small exaggeration.)

Eric himself has breathlessly reported moments of bachelor relapse to me—harrowingly close calls of nearly leaving the bathroom door open whilst he peed.

The terror. The terror!

Yikes-ah.

You’ll have to keep praying for us, as we adjust to life as a “we.” :)

Beating boredom...

Sometimes working at a preschool can get a bit mundane.

The endless barrage of “Mrs. Bjerkaas, he hit me!” “Mrs. Bjerkaas, can you button my pants?” “Mrs. Bjerkaas, I have to go potty.” “Mrs. Bjerkaas, she told me to shut up.”

Etc., etc., etc.

So sometimes—especially while I’m sitting outside watching the kids defy certain death on the playground—I have to find ways to entertain myself.

(Lest I become stupider. And forget how to interact with adults. And so forth.)

It wasn’t long before I came up with the “What will the kids grow up to be?” game. That was fun. But pretty cliché. And not altogether captivating.

But then I came up with a much better game—trying to imagine what my husband was like in preschool. Oh, yeah, lots of fun. I compare him with the kids and see which traits I thought he displayed then. It’s also fun to play using Kimmie. Or my dad.

Kissy Face

This morning, as we were getting out of the car for church, Eric refused to kiss me, on account of the fresh coat of lipgloss I’d just put on.

Men.

Sigh.

(I keep finding old blogs scribbled on scraps of paper here and there... weird.)

A confession...

Ok, well, it's probably pretty obvious that someone is a leeeeettle obsessed with her wedding photos. Sooooo... sorry about that.

I've never before wanted this much to look at this many photos of myself.
It's a really strange feeling.

But doesn't my husband look handsome?!
And isn't everything just so perfect and pretty?!?!
And these aren't even half of them!

Sigh.

I got home from a bike ride nearly an hour ago, and I've been looking at and posting them since. Eric kept looking over here again and again, then finally said, "What in the world are you doing?! I thought you were going to take a shower. ... You smell."

My husband thinks I smell.

Dreamy sigh.

The honeymoon--and wedding picture day--is so over.

My daddy...

Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
Sort of like my husband does.
I totally married my father.



Did I tell you it was a few minutes before go-time at the church, and we realized no one had grabbed the flowers from the table at the lodge? So Daddy flew back to the cabin, grabbed them and made it back in time to catch his breath and walk me down the aisle. No problem.
(This is why he's holding the flowers, not me.)


All the kids, Christine and Kimmie had already left. It was just my dad and me. Waiting.



We don't know how to dance.

The wee pretty uns...

Picture shortcut...

So, proofs are overwhelming. I posted some of the wedding photos on my facebook account, and apparently you can get to the albums by clicking the links below... Good luck.

Becoming a Bjerkaas

Becoming a Bjerkaas II

Becoming a Bjerkaas III

All these are really low res, so if you want to see the good stuff, or order a print or two, you'll have to go to our fabulous photographers' website, www.philmcconville.com.

Just now, I got up to give Eric a hug.

He went all crazy wrestler man on me.

It's Sunday. He's been relaxing. Watching all those new UFC fights he bought yesterday.

His explanation for nearly breaking me in two?

"I'm in UFC mode. I went on the defense."

Because I was going to hug him.

We need a puppy.

The 50/50 Plan.

There's this book I should be reading, about the first year of marriage. It's sitting in our book basket, under our makeshift nightstand, next to the bed.

Back when I was reading it, I read this great part about how we've all accepted the world's plan for marriage--the 50/50 Plan, which says, "You do your part, and I'll do mine." That the other person will "meet me halfway."

The author says the concept sounds logical, but couples who use it are destined for disappointment and failure.

Why? Because the biggest weakness in the 50/50 plan is that it's impossible to determine if your mate has met you halfway. Because neither of you can agree on where halfway is, each is left to scrutinize the other's performance from a jaded, often selfish perspective.

I remember thinking, "Hey, these guys are on to something." And I'm all for that.

But, putting all seriousness aside, sometimes it's nice to play the 50/50 card.

For example, tonight we saw Star Trek. The prospect of which held absolutely no interest to me.

But, I did take interest in one particular preview, after which I took the opportunity to ask Eric if we could go see it. I also took the opportunity to remind him I was sitting there at Star Trek.

50/50. Meet me halfway. At the movies.

Eric's recently revealed Ultimate Fighting fix has provided me with a few opportunities to work the 50/50 system. The first time he bought a DVD, I offset it with a slightly superfluous comfy underwear purchase. Then, tonight, as he picked up five more clearance discs, I suggested maybe I'd cash that in for a movie purchase of my own. Which I did. Romantic comedy and mushy drama style.

Dan in Real Life. Pride and Prejudice.

50/50.

So, sometimes 50/50 isn't all that bad. But 100/100 is certainly a more loving, lasting and Christlike way to work a marriage.

I know I always get the good side of the equation, as my favorite math teacher always tips the scales in my advantage, being the servant leader he is.

I'm quite the blessed gal.

Not only do I get those comfy undies, two new chick flicks and plan for our next date night... I also have one superb husband, who loves me.

And loves me well.

Mrs. Bjerkaas.

I have different names, depending on where I am in the school building.

I'm "Miss C." with the grade schoolers--their strange substitute teacher.

I'm "Miss Andi" with my special ed preschoolers. When I took the job in January, I knew a name change wasn't far off, and I didn't want to interject that variable for them, as continuity is important with those kids.

So important (sarcasm) that I was bumped out of their room and into a regular ed classroom in April, where I'm officially "Mrs. Bjerkaas."

Which, I'm surprised to report, the kids have very little trouble saying. That probably has something to do with the fact that they don't yet read. That's when the ol' surname gets tricky--when you see it written out. (Eric says his students did fine with it until they saw it spelled out... haha.)

Some call me "Bear-kiss." Some get closer to "Bjerkaas." And some--I'm not going to lie--call me (or try to get away with calling me), "Hey you" or some variant thereof.

We've got this one little guy who gets excited when he's able to do something. One day he needed some help at the art table and called me over--"Mrs. Bjeeeeeerkaas!" Then he interrupted himself to celebrate, "Mrs. Bjerkaas, I did it! I did it, Mrs. Bjerkaas! I called you Mrs. Bjerkaas!"

Really, really cute.

Skim fast.... (it's not really worth reading...)

I realized today that the one huge bonus in giving up on and letting go of going on a honeymoon is that now I have no reason but to entirely let myself go, as well.

Wonderful, right?

Hooray! One bonus!!!

Not that I'm too far from it already.

I was gleefully having a few marshmallows for breakfast the other morning, and Eric swept them off the table and into his fist, then matter-of-factly slammed them in the trash can.

Pffft.

As if he's Mr. Healthy Eater Man. I keep feeding the man what I think is good-for-him food, and he keeps gaining weight. He's been steadily gaining weight since we met, in fact. (But, yes, he's still a very slim man...) It's a mystery. As in, a real, genuine mystery. How can that happen?

Somedays he invites me to resign to the fact that that's what newly married couples do--gain weight.

But I don't remember the woman being included in that generality... is she?

Lovin' in the rain...