They bloomed just fine in 2006, having transplanted them just before they opened. I was so proud of their blooms, their color. You know, even though I had little to do with growing them or caring for them that first year. I was still proud. Beautiful flowers! Growing! In my very own yard!

Then came 2007. We watched them spring up in early Spring and start their big, leafy growing process. We watched the stalks sprout forth and begin their climb toward the sky. We watched the buds appear, the orange not yet visible under the thick, protective green skin. And then, just as we watched them appear, we watched them start to disappear. Apparently both deer and birds find day lily buds to be a fantastically yummy treat. Eventually, on the four lilies we had in the yard at that point, we were down to one very last bud… and I watched a neighbor girl pick it off. I was so sad. Absolutely no lilies made it to bloom in 2007. I was pregnant and overemotional as it was; I just wanted some beautiful orange flowers in my backyard.

Then came 2008. While I had spoken to the offending child’s mother, that didn’t stop the deer from snacking on them in the middle of the night. The deer were very forward and not skittish last year, walking into our yard not just in the middle of the night but in the hours of dusk and twilight. Once again, I sat at our dining room table and stared at one remaining bud. That poor little soul was captured by a bird when I turned my head. And, for the second year in a row, none of my lilies made it to bloom.

I felt like a flower failure even though I faithfully watered and trimmed and cared for those plants.

And now, it’s 2009. AND I HAVE LILIES!

I haven’t seen the deer this year. I’m hoping they have moved on to another flower garden this year. The birds, despite still flying around in large number, seem to be leaving them alone. Maybe they, too, are getting their fill in a neighbor’s patch of day lilies. I don’t know. But I do know that I have lilies. And I’m thrilled beyond measure. We transplanted three more groups this year, now totaling seven large groups of lilies along our fence row. As I walked past the back door last week, rain drizzling and clouds covering, a flash of orange caught my eye. I honestly stopped in my tracks, walked backward in my dining room and squealed with delight. Lilies! In my yard! I found my camera and ran outside, ignoring the drizzle that made my hair frizz for the rest of the day. The results are lovely.

I think flowers look the best in the rain, really.

I don’t know what changed this year. I do think the absence of too-friendly deer has been beneficial to growth and blooming. When the neighbor kids moved, I’m sure that didn’t hurt their chances either. Maybe the fact that our backyard-neighbors no longer put feed in their bird feeder has limited the number of birds flying through the yards, raising the chances that one or twelve won’t each bite off a yummy lily bloom. Whatever the case, I am so happy that they bloomed this year. They should reach full bloom sometime this week (if it remains warm, unlike last week). I would expect more pictures.

Hooray for lilies! (That bloom!)

1. Be safe with fireworks and obey your local laws. What’s that mean? Know what is and is not legal in your area. If it’s not legal, don’t use it. The list of tips at FireworksSafety.com is really handy to keep in mind.

• Use fireworks outdoors only. (This should be obvious.)
• Obey local laws. If fireworks are not legal where you live, do not use them.
• Always have water handy. (A hose or bucket).
• Only use fireworks as intended. Don’t try to alter them or combine them.
• Never relight a “dud” firework. Wait 20 minutes and then soak it in a bucket of water.
• Use common sense. Spectators should keep a safe distance from the shooter and the shooter should wear safety glasses.
• Alcohol and fireworks do not mix. Have a “designated shooter.”
• Only persons over the age of 12 should be allowed to handle sparklers of any type.
• Do not ever use homemade fireworks of illegal explosives: They can kill you! Report illegal explosives to the fire or police department in your community.

If you are experiencing a drought in your area, avoid shooting off fireworks above your house or the homes of others. A stray spark or a bottle rocket gone off course could set a rooftop on fire. A few pretty colors and a big boom aren’t worth losing your home or injuring those that you love.

2. If you’re having a picnic, make sure that your hot foods are grilled thoroughly and that your cold foods (especially ones that contain mayonnaise) are kept cold enough. In fact, according to What’s Cooking America, there’s a “two hour rule.”

Two Hour Rule. Don’t leave perishable food un-refrigerated for more than two hours. Put perishable foods back in the cooler or refrigerator as soon as you finish eating. Don’t leave them out while you go for a swim or a hike, and don’t leave them out all afternoon to nibble on.

If you feel like something is if-y (like if the sun moved the shade off of a table, thus “baking” some potato salad), it is always better to toss it and be safe than figure it is safe and make everyone at the party sick. If in doubt, pitch it!

3. Don’t forget the sunscreen. While it’s been cold here in the Midwest this week, it’s supposed to be sunny and in the 80’s on Saturday. That said, even on cloudy days, 80% of the sun’s ultraviolet rays can pass through the clouds. (Trust me! I’ve been burnt on cloudy days.) Put your safe sunscreen on 15-30 minutes before heading outside and reapply every two hours or again after toweling off after a swim. (Don’t forget lips and the tops of feet!)

4. Don’t drink and drive! Obviously you should never be drinking and driving. However, just in case you think that you’re safe this weekend, you’re not. A holiday doesn’t magically exempt everyone from the rules of the road. Here in Ohio, a crackdown is planned on impaired drivers (through Monday). Fifteen people died in car accidents in Ohio during the 4th of July celebrations in 2008. “Almost half” of those were alcohol related. If you think you’re exempt because drunk driving accidents only happen to bad people and you, of course, fall under the heading of a “good person,” think again. Stop in and read Joy DeVere’s post at BlogHer which talks about how she lost her husband to a drunk driving accident and then was hit by a drunk driver herself. In short, save yourself and others: designate a driver.

From our family to yours, have a safe and Happy 4th of July! (I’m sure we’ll toss up a family picture from my Uncle’s wedding at some point in time over the weekend. I can’t guarantee we’ll be smiling. But we’ll be safe!)

The customizable desktop she is offering this month is patriotic in theme. And here’s what is smiling back at me right now.

It comes without the picture of my smiling children, obviously. That said, it does come with a blank spot for you to enter your own picture. You will need photo editing software of some sort. Being the (pseudo-)photographer that I am, I have Photoshop CS4. Then you can sort through lots of girly-based digital scrapbooking sites and become annoyed at the lack of available stuff for moms of boys and/or moms who prefer green to pink. But, you know, who is complaining? (Apparently I am.) (That said, there are great digital scrapbooking sets with boy themes, though very few that are with fire trucks that aren’t… ugly. More on that next week.)

Happy July! And thanks to Designs by Laura for offering me something without frills!

For two days after t-ball was over, trophies having been handed out, BigBrother wore his hat as he ran around the yard and ran errands with FireDad. I remember feeling that way as each of my softball seasons ended. Of course, our hats back in the day, except for my last year, were those horrible trucker type hats with the mesh back and the high front featuring the name of our sponsor. No, I won’t scan that for you, either.

I’m torn, however, with the ending of BigBrother’s first t-ball season. I know he loved playing but there are a few reasons that I’m glad this season is over.

Reasons that I’m glad t-ball is over:

1. The Mean Kid on the team will stop poking his forefinger in my BigBrother’s face on the field and knocking LittleBrother down on the sidelines. I know I can’t protect my kids from everything. (You know, they might want to be firefighters.) But when some mean, nasty kid gets in his face every. single. game., well, I get kind of peeved. At the very last game, the Mean Kid finally pushed LittleBrother with his glove. I wanted to cuss at the kid but, well, I don’t do that. I simply said, “Excuse me,” picked up LittleBrother and sat in my chair. Later, another Mom on the team gave me kudos for saying something. Apparently the Mean Kid didn’t just pick on my children. He was mean to all of them. (I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse.) He also spit on kids at the first game. Glad to be done with that… until next year… and hopefully the Mean Kid will be on some other poor kids’ team.

2. We can get away from the smoke. No, seriously. WHO SMOKES AT A T-BALL GAME? I mean, you’re not even allowed to smoke at PNC Park so why on Earth would you be allowed to smoke at a t-ball game? The ages of these children are three to six, depending on when they start(ed) Kindergarten. A large number of these children have younger brothers and sisters running around the sideline with happy little pink lungs. A surprisingly large number of the mothers were pregnant, gestating little lungs. But these smokers didn’t care. They didn’t walk to their cars to light up. They stood behind my chair, where my one and a half year old sat on my lap, and blew their nasty smoke over my head. UGH!

3. Playing guessing games with the weather. The constant, “Will it rain hard enough to cancel the game or can we get it in between the raindrops or, OMG! THUNDER! RUN!” got tiresome. Make-up games made for rescheduling of other things and busy weeks. I’m glad to be done with that as I prefer to know my schedule weeks in advance. What can I say? I don’t like change.

But, other than those things, we had a great season. It was a great experience for BigBrother. He found something that he really likes. He could really take or leave basketball. But t-ball? He throws the ball alone in our yard now, runs and gets it and then throws it to “first base,” yelling what he is doing the whole while. It’s adorable.

And that’s the main reason I’m sad that the season is over: BigBrother loved it. He mentioned t-ball just yesterday. We reminded him that t-ball was over now. “Don’t you remember getting your trophy.” His trophy, of course, is still sitting at his placemat on our kitchen table. It has to sit there, to be admired at breakfast, lunch, dinner and all table snacks. He nodded but his face fell a bit. We explained that he could play again next year but, really, what does a year mean to a three and a half year old? A cross between absolutely nothing and an eternity.

Again, I can’t say enough about the coaches, the experience. Hesitant at first, he was running the bases on his own by his last three or four games. He laughed when he would swing and miss, the missing becoming less of a normal occurrence in those last few games. He would also run for the ball and actively field it. He bonded with his coaches, understanding to listen to them. He didn’t always hustle on and off the field. He didn’t always like paying attention when he was on the field. (Lasering other kids and pretending to be a cross between Buzz Lightyear, Spiderman and a Transformer were other means of field standing entertainment. Would that be Buzz Spideformer?) He also deeply, truly and really loved getting ice cream cones after games. But, really, so did I. So did FireDad. LittleBrother, our lactose intolerant little buddy, however, was not as deeply moved by the after game tradition.

All in all, I’m thrilled with this recent organized sports experience. Minus the Mean Kid, the other kids on his team were great to and for BigBrother as well. BigBrother brought the entertainment value with his aforementioned Buzz Spideformer performances. I still don’t think we’ll be purchasing tiny cleats for next year (it’s community t-ball, folks, not the big leagues) but we may need to purchase LittleBrother’s glove soon so he’ll stop gunning for his brother’s glove.

I can handle this, by the way, being a T-ball Mom. I didn’t yell from the sidelines (except to tell him to leave the Mean Kid alone and keep his hands to himself). I did cheer and clap when he hit and ran but I never scolded. I won’t be that kind of T-ball Mom. But, really, this is much better than the squeaking shoes of basketball. Fresh air (minus the smoke), dog piles on the ball and laughter? Yes please!

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom and Life Down Our Lane.]

1. LittleBrother sleeps for twelve to thirteen hours at night. I’m not going to undo that, thank you very much.

2. His output has increased mainly because it is summer and we’re outside more so, of course, he’s drinking more water. As we are not working on overnight potty training, I don’t see a point in limiting his evening drinking. To be fair, he does not have a cup of water with his evening snack (soy yogurt) so it’s not as if we’re filling his bladder fifteen minutes before tucking him in.

Here’s what we were previously using and have also tried in hopes of fixing the problem.

1. Our old foolproof method was a new-style Fuzzi Bunz with a microterry contoured insert by Rainforest Babies, double stuffed with a large hemp JoeyBunz by BabyKicks insert. This used to be a no-questions-asked, always-works method for our family, starting back when BigBrother was wetting through everything at night. I stripped our Fuzzi Bunz in case it was a build-up issue. It is not.

2. We have, on occasion, used a classic organic bamboo velour Goodmama fitted with a Super Doubler and a Good Front covered with a Thirsties cover at night. While Goodmamas are absolutely fine for us during the day, overnight they cause too much moisture next to his skin which, like mine, is intensely sensitive.

3. I broke down and attempted the only brand of disposable diapers that he doesn’t have an allergic reaction to (Pampers) as an option. Nothing going. He still woke up with a wet bed and I feel guilty that we used disposables. Lose-lose on that one.

And so, I’ve been doing some researching.

Well, really, what I did was tweet about it.

I think I’ll blog about this next week but we need a new overnight #clothdiaper solution. LB has apparently upped his output & sleeps 13 hrs.

Not only did I get some answers but I got an offer as well from @sloomb. Thanks to what I can only call fabulous customer service (See! It still exists!), we’re being sent a Sustainable Babyish Organic Bamboo Fleece Fitted diaper (yes, in Sprout) and a wool cover as a hopeful answer to our overnight problems. We will definitely review our experience with this solution (after we lanolize the cover) over on Stop, Drop & Review. We’re hopeful that we’ll be purchasing three more diapers and covers from the company. (As we keep four overnight diapers in rotation.) Cross your fingers!

If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure what we’ll do. FireDad has suggested cutting leg holes in a trash bag and tying it around his waist. (Obviously he is joking. Keep the calls to CPS to a minimum.) And so, the real point of this post is for my readers to offer up some overnight solutions that are currently working for you. (Links would be helpful if they aren’t name brand cloth diapering solutions.)

Secondly, and maybe more importantly, to tell your children that they can’t be a firefighter is insulting to your spouse. If it’s good enough for your partner in life, why shouldn’t it be good enough for your children? Don’t feed me the line for bull-hockey that you “want more for your children.” Kids pick up on that much more quickly than adults will give them credit. To say that they can’t be a firefighter is to say that you don’t value what their other parent does for a living. It is insulting, degrading and all around a bad idea for your relationship both with your children and your spouse.

But that doesn’t mean that raising little firefighters is easy.

I’ve gotten used to dealing with the anxiety that accompanies the knowledge that my husband is running into burning buildings. Yes, it sets me on edge at times. Yes, there are moments when I am overwhelmed with the schedule or the worry or the fact that he’s been called out, once again, when I needed him by my side. Sometimes I have nightmares. But, for the most part, I accept the place that the fire life has in our day-to-day being. In fact, most of the time, I take pride in being part of such a unique family, the family of firefighters. I can find the good in being married to a firefighter.

But do I want this for my boys?

I see the passion in their eyes when they climb into the trucks when we visit FireDad at the department on his shift days. I hear the joy in their voice when they hear a siren from just about anywhere, pausing to say, “Mommy, a fire truck. A fire truck!” I listen as they play with their many toy fire trucks that we have in house, some of which were FireDad’s back in the day, and smile as they act out what they imagine to be heroic fire fighting situations. I have, of course, warned BigBrother that exclaiming, “FIRE! FIRE!” while playing in his downstairs playroom is enough to make my heart stop and that we really shouldn’t exclaim “FIRE! FIRE!” unless there is a FIRE! FIRE! And still, watching him don his little firefighter uniform, throw on his air pack and put out imaginary fires with his hose, I can’t help but feel that same sense of pride that I feel when I see their father drive a fire truck.

To answer the question, however, yes, the thought of them joining the fire life scares me.

I know it’s a possibility, of course. Fire life, like other forms of business, especially those that are some form of service, seems to run through the blood. FireDad’s own father was a volunteer firefighter, just like his father before him. It’s what was done, it’s what they do. It’s what they live for, what they strive for, what makes them happy, complete. I see that same passion in my boys’ eyes, hear it in their voices. I know that one or both (or neither) may someday say, with more than just a three year old’s zeal, “Mom, I’m going to be a firefighter.” I know that, even though I find it scary, I will hug them and offer my support.

I don’t want my baby boys to run into burning buildings. I don’t want them to put themselves in danger. I don’t want to worry when I hear a siren and I don’t know their location. But, to be honest, I also don’t want them to get skinned knees or break their arms or fall down or give each other noogies. I want to place them in bubbles of protection, never let them out of my sight and pick who they will marry. But life doesn’t work that way. They are going to live their lives, form their own likes and dislikes, choose their careers, change their minds about those careers, break hearts, get broken hearts, punch each other and marry someone whom I probably don’t yet know. I can’t dictate their lives. To do so would be unfair and would likely put me on the outside of their lives instead of on the inside, enjoying the ride with them both.

Would I rather they be at safe desk jobs? If that’s what they love, sure! (Perhaps I have a writer among one or both of them?) Even then, no job is guaranteed safe, you know. People go crazy and shoot up offices. Driving to an interview, they could be in an accident. Or, perhaps, knowing BigBrother’s hands-on, in-your-face personality, perhaps he would perish from boredem if forced to sit behind a desk for eight to ten hours per day, five to six days per week. I won’t know. They won’t know until they get there.

In the end, I’ll be honest: it does scare me. But so does the thought of them doing something that they don’t love simply to make me happy. I want them both to live full, happy lives, to do something that they love as passionately as I love doing what I’m doing right now. I want them to know, all the while, that they have our support while they’re working toward it, while they’re doing it. I want them to be as proud of themselves as I am of them both, now and always.

The Secret Garden

Little Women

Anne of Green Gables

The No-Cry Potty Training Solution

Lifegivers

The Girls Who Went Away

I chose to re-read My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult last week for a number of reasons. It remains one of my favorite books (despite not being overly impressed with some of her other novels). I read it back when it was first released and I have loved the drama, the concepts presents and the twist at the end. I loved getting involved with the book. But I had forgotten some things over the years and so I decided to sit down with the book once again since the movie was released in theaters today.

I had forgotten that the husband in the book was a firefighter. To be fair, as I read this book before FireDad was hired on the department (remember, he got hired just after we were married), I wasn’t really indoctrinated into the fire life just yet. Reading it this time, I found myself nodding my head at some of the mentions of fire life. You know, except for the part where Brian, the father, has Anna, the daughter asking for medical emancipation from her parents, move into the fire department with him. Sorry. Not going to happen in real life.

I had forgotten the questions the book made me ask, back before I was parenting these two boys. I asked them aloud this time, involving FireDad in my internal back-and-forth, whether we would ever consider bringing another child into our lives to save one of the boys. (Not that I can carry another child.) Or, even without that, would we force one of our existing children to donate anything to another if the child in question had reservations or simply didn’t want to do it. We had some interesting discussions, the two of us, as I quickly devoured the pages in the book once more.

There were quotes in the book that struck me this time around, ones that maybe I thought of last time but I was in a different place. I dog-eared the pages of my book this time around (yes, I’m that reader) and have considered each of them deeply. One quote, a paragraph, spoke to me deeply.

It would have been better, of course, if Luisa, had been in her own room, as her mother expected. But kids don’t always stay where they’re supposed to. You turn around and find her not in the bedroom but hiding in a closet; you turn around and she’s not three but thirteen. Parenting is really just a matter of tracking, of hoping your kids to not get so far ahead you can no longer see their next moves.

I mean, isn’t that true? That, combined with a trio of sentence just down the page from the above set of truths really blew me away.

I became a firefighter because I wanted to save people. But I should have been more specific. I should have named names.

Ah, yes.

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I’ll be honest, I’m not thrilled about the book being turned into a movie. I rarely (and I do mean rarely) like the movie more than the book. In fact, more often than not, I hate the movie because it is so rarely a true representation of the written word. This movie, so far, is no different. As an example, the mother in the book is a brunette. Cameron Diaz, my least favorite actress on today’s scene, is not a brunette. Nor do I feel she will be able to do this part justice despite the rave reviews she is getting from critics. (I also rarely agree with the critics, mind you.)

When you combine my dislike of the actress portraying the mother with the fact that THEY CHANGED THE ENDING, well, I find little room for hope. The ending of this book makes the book. The ending of this story makes the story. Without this ending, the way that it is written, the book would still be well-written and intriguing. But it wouldn’t push you to that brink, to question everything you just read, to question life as it is. It wouldn’t make you catch your breath, shake your fist at God and generally dissolve into a puddle of tears. If you change the ending, you change the book. And while Picoult was very gracious in her USA Today interview about the change of ending, had it been me, I would have said something like, “I wash my hands of it.” And then I would have spat at the ground.

I’m nothing if not dramatic, no?

I will likely wait until the movie comes out on DVD before subjecting myself to what I imagine to be two hours of drinding my teeth every time Cameron Diaz opens her mouth. I will try to avoid spoilers of the changed ending but, knowing the internet, someone will offer one when I am least expecting it, hiding it behind a click of something else entirely. I will see the movie because I am a glutton for punishment, a book lover who will want to see if, in the end, they did one of her favorites justice on the Silver Screen. But I fear the results, of course.

Just as I sat in fear of the end of the book during my re-read. And I knew what was coming. I prefer it that way, really.

When FireDad and I said our vows, we had already been through the long and involved process of testing and interviewing to be hired by the fire department. We were actually enduring the middle of a hiring freeze as I walked down the aisle toward him on that cold, December day. Prior to all of this, during our dating days (and, really, prior to me), he was a volunteer firefighter (and paid the bills as a Paramedic). I had an inkling of what fire life would be like but… I also had no clue. He was hired by the fire department shortly after our wedding. And during our honeymooning year, I got the baptismal by fire, literally, into the depths of fire life.

And so, I have some advice, of course, having lived this life for five years now.

Don’t marry a firefighter if you are relying on their presence or the stability of their schedule. The pager will go off on Christmas Eve as you are trying to build a bike together. There will be a fully involved structure fire on the morning of your big interview, leaving you scrambling to find child care. They will work on your birthday, their birthday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and every other holiday imaginable. Not all in the same year (though that list in the previous sentence is true for us this year, sigh) but eventually, all of them. More in some years than in others. On days you have plans to work on the house or get things done, they will be needed at the fire house. On a day that you planned on doing nothing more than relaxing, the sound of fire sirens leaving the station will bring a halt to your attempt at relaxation, nerves on edge. And, more than once, they will be summoned to a fire from the heat of passion in your own bedroom. Trust me, it happens.

Do marry a firefighter if you want someone who is reliable. Does that contradict what I just said? No. Their nature is one of loyalty and, as such, reliability. If they say they’re going to do something, it will get done. Sometimes that means after the fire but it always means that it will get done. They usually tend to understand that you are also at the mercy of the fire house even though you are not a firefighter. As such, they genuinely tend to keep promises. Not all of them. There are bad apples just like in every other profession. But, for the most part, they’re good, loyal people.

Don’t marry a firefighter if you don’t want other people to think that your spouse is “hot.” Firefighters, male or female, are ogled. They are winked at, looked at, smiled at and flirted with everywhere from the bank to the elementary school. It happens. It’s that love of heroism and bravery and uniforms and strength and everything all rolled into one. And fire trucks! Everyone loves a fire truck as it goes speeding by.

Do marry a firefighter if you love the way fire smells mixed in with your significant others’ natural smell. It can be intoxicating.

Don’t marry a firefighter if you think it’s all about heroism and bravery. Sometimes it’s about washing garage floors and checking trucks. Sometimes it’s about arguments at their Union meetings, which you can’t always know the intricate details about but still need to offer support. Sometimes it’s about petty grumpiness within the fire house. Sometimes it’s about raising money for a new truck. Sometimes it’s about them taking a night out, despite having been gone the 24 hours before, with their fellow firefighters to cool down, chill out.

Don’t marry a firefighter if you think it will be an easy life, a decision you will never question. To be honest, all people married to others with any number of jobs have moments of, “You care more about your job than you care about me!” You may want to yell, “Family should come first!” To be fair, when they’re rushing out the door leaving you to wash all the dishes from the Christmas dinner you just hosted, they are caring about family first. It’s someone else’s family at the moment but, yes, a family. Learning that sometimes you just have to suck it up at times is a long process. Sometimes it’s a lonely one.

Don’t marry a firefighter if you can’t sleep alone without them there. Do marry a firefighter if you’d like to hog the bed to yourself every third night. (Note: if they take one day off, that means that you will have to sleep together for five days in a row. Can you handle it without sending them to the couch?)

Don’t marry a firefighter if you would never “allow” your children to be firefighters. First of all, the idea that you can shape what grown adult children do or do not do is simply funny. Secondly, it runs through the veins. (I’ll be talking about this soon.) They’re going to see Mommy or Daddy on a fire truck and they’re going to want to do it. Maybe it will be a short-lived childhood obsession. Maybe they will join the fire service. However, telling them that it isn’t a job they are “allowed” to do not only is silly but ends up putting down your spouse.

Do marry a firefighter if you want your children to have a built in hero. Yes, I know, it’s not all about heroism and bravery but, to a child, it really, really is. To boot, pun intended, your spouse can be an example of how staying clean, being responsible and working hard can benefit your child when they’re a grumpy teen wanting to follow the crowd.

If it seems that there are more “don’ts” here than “do’s” the reason is simple and is the below point:

Don’t marry a firefighter for any other reason than wanting to spend the rest of your life with that person. The rest of the stuff will fall together if you truly possess that love and commitment that comes with any marriage. There will be times when you will argue (like in any marriage). Sometimes you will argue about the job in question. Fire families, like other families, make sacrifices when it comes to schedules and last minute changes. But it’s a good family to be a part of in the end.

And so, would I suggest that the reader who found our blog marry that firefighter? Well, I just asked FireDad if he thought our reader should marry a firefighter. He said, “Well, probably not.” That’s just him being humble. Or stubborn. Or silly. Or anything else that he is. But, then again, I’m sure he’d have a few things to say about being married to a writer. (Maybe I should have him write that someday.)

In the end, I love being married to a firefighter. Our life is stable and crazy all at once. My children obviously love visiting the fire department. And, yes, women make eyes at him but, in the end, he comes home to me at night. I love his honesty, his loyalty, his sense of humor, his devotion to what he loves and his bravery. We argue at times, like any other couple but I can’t imagine being married to anyone else.

And that’s how you know if you should marry a firefighter or not.

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[Cake photo credit. No, it wasn't ours. But that sure is us in the other picture.]

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, please visit 5 Minutes for Mom and Life Down Our Lane.]