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This weekend Rick goes into work and one of his colleagues says, “Your wife is at the grocery store and she’s stressed because it’s packed and she left her mom with all four kids.”

(I ordinarily don’t leave anyone with all four children but we were out of pancake syrup and sour cream & onion baked chips so you can understand the seriousness of the situation and who the hell knew that everyone shops on Saturdays at 5 pm. Is that a thing we are all doing now?)

“How do you know she’s at the grocery store?” Rick asked his co-worker.

“She just tweeted it.”

And that’s sort of how it rolls for my husband. A lot of people know about his life, sometimes before he does. And it’s not so easy for him to tell his own stories. He gets half way through a story like this…

“So the craziest thing happened last night. First, we thought the smoke detector was going off and then we were madly trying to figure out where the chirping was coming from and it turned out to be the carbon monoxide detector so we called — ”

And the other person politely explains, “Oh, I know. I read it on the blog.”

Now he doesn’t let me share everything. There is a certain TV personality that he has a crush on and he won’t let me write about her. Let’s just say, she’s the outdoorsy beauty queen type who’s very charming and her name rhymes with Van-Halen. Not the van part.

Since I don’t blog on the weekends, this is Rick’s opportunity to edge me out and share something first.

So on Saturday he told a friend, “Chase was waking up every 17 minutes at night so we finally just locked him in his bedroom on Friday night and let him cry it out.”

It’s true. We did. I mean, there was no lock. He could have walked out if he wanted. But we did sleep train him. The first time he woke up, he cried for 30 minutes (agony for me). The second time he woke up, 10 minutes. The third time 2 minutes. And on Saturday night, he slept through the whole night.  It’s very promising. We might be taking back the night from this little boy….

By the way, Rick is dying to tell you a story about how Chase is just like his uncle Max with all the grunting, farting and constipation. So for the love of God, let him tell you.

But just between you and me, Rick doesn’t have an uncle Max.

25 Responses to she says, he says (but she gets to say it first)

kelcey kintner