Also, I get that this is completely a first-world, white-girl problem.  But still.  I had fallen so hard for this sexy beast of a coffee maker – I even wrote a whole slobbery-kiss-type post about it –  that for it to let me down here in Italy is just truly a heart-breaker.

I haven’t even looked for a programmable coffee maker that runs on 220-volt power source.  I mean, this is Italy.  They drink espresso, not café Americano.  Don’t get me wrong; the espresso is delicious!  And… peppy! But it’s not ready when I come downstairs at 5:40 in the early blasted morning.  Even if it was, I just… love my whole coffee routine.  And I finally perfected the taste. (Brewed a little strong, so that I can toss a few pieces of ice in it to cool it down faster so I can drink it sooner…. it’s a science, I tell you!)

So my new routine is to stumble down the stairs and hit the button on the coffee maker.  Then I stumble to my recliner and plop down, waiting for the coffee maker to beep, telling me that the coffee is ready.  Eventually I drag myself out of the recliner and go pour a cup…

And I just hate that part.

I don’t really know why, except that one of the things I really loved about my coffee being ready when I came downstairs is that I could pour a cup and go sit in my chair for 15 or 20 minutes, sipping and getting ready for my day, without getting back up again until it was time to get Jet out of bed.

This morning, my extra-amazing husband was getting ready to leave for PT (physical training), as usual.  And, as usual, we barely exchanged three words, because we’ve learned over the last ten years of marriage that it’s best if we don’t speak to each other early in the morning.  It never ends well.

Before he left this morning, though, he did something that wasn’t part of the “as usual”.  That amazing man, the one that I pledged my heart and life to, lo those many years ago, brought me a cup of coffee, complete with ice cubes, to my recliner.

I get choked up and teary-eyed, writing about it even now.

He probably doesn’t even know what he really did…  Just another example of how blessed I am.

Knight, te quiero, con todo mi corazón, todo que soy, y todo que seré.

Fast-forward to modern times… today, to be exact.  I sat at the table in our house, sticking by our iron-clad rule that everyone at the table must take at least one taste of each item on his/her plate.  (Corollaries to the rule include that the taste must be, at minimum, approximately the size of a dime and must be done where a grown-up can see it.  One must chew and swallow the taste.  One is allowed to hold one’s nose and take multiple gulps of water following said taste.  One is not allowed to whine about the taking of the taste nor about one’s opinion of said taste.  One may politely say, “I don’t really care for this” and proceed to make oneself a dinner of yogurt, cheese and crackers.)

Someone on Pinterest had the gall to post a delicious-looking picture of brussels sprouts that had been roasted with butternut squash and bacon and balsamic vinegar.  Something inside me clicked, and somehow I decided that, being a mature woman of thirty-mumblety-mumble years, I should give brussels sprouts another chance.  This recipe even had a Plan B (for Butternut Squash).  Also, I’ve discovered that roasting nearly anything makes it taste MUCH better than boiling it.  I’m trying to be healthier.  Brussels sprouts were on sale at the commissary this week.

All of these things combined to create the perfect storm whereby I made roasted brussels sprouts and butternut squash for dinner this evening.  Except, we aren’t eating bacon because we are being healthy.  And I didn’t have balsamic vinegar.  So I just seasoned them up with garlic, salt, pepper, ginger and olive oil, like I normally would for butternut squash, and threw them in the oven at a toasty-roasty 425 for awhile.

Twenty-five years ago, I finally ate that stupid brussels sprout.  And I hadn’t touched another one since.

Tonight, I was mentally crossing my fingers, pitting my somewhat developed cooking skills against the palate of my younger days, giving myself an internal pep-talk that somehow this recipe would make the difference for my brussels-sprout-hating self.

I’m sorry to say that it didn’t.  I tried, though!  I promise… I did.  I choked down three or four of the little buggers, and then decided that I’m a grown-up, and I don’t have to eat them if I don’t want to.

And then I watched my seven-year-old son gather his courage to take his bite.  To his credit, he didn’t whine.

He did, however, ask me to cut a half of a brussels sprout in half, which I most willingly did.

He gripped his fork in one hand and his water cup in the other.  He took several deep breaths.  Then he changed tactics, setting his cup on the table and gripping his nose between thumb and forefinger. He took another deep breath, staring down the offending vegetable.

Meanwhile, I’m stifling giggles, refusing to make eye contact with Knight.  He and I share a history of brussels-sprout-hatred.  I’m quickly sipping wine in an effort to keep from losing it completely, which, in retrospect, may not have been the wisest choice…

Finally, with precision and speed, Jet squared his shoulders, shoved the fork in his mouth.  Wrinkling his nose, he chewed and swallowed as quickly as humanly possible, and then slurped his water for all he was worth.

I don’t know why we do this to our kids.  I guess it’s in the parenting manual… under Maybe They’ll Like It, sandwiched between Because I Said So and It’s Good For You, That’s Why.

These questions always make me a little nervous.  I never know where they’re headed.  Is he expecting a certain answer from me?  What, exactly, is cooking in that little brain of his?  Is this a conversation I even want to have?  Maybe he needs to talk to his daddy about this?

More and more, I’m seeing a little boy/young man emerge where my baby boy once was.  His sense of humor has developed, and he truly makes me laugh sometimes…. and not just because he wasn’t intending to be funny.

But I firmly believe that every moment is a teachable moment, so, this morning, I bravely answered him with, “Well, I think it’s pretty cool the way God designed our bodies just perfectly to do all the things we need them to do.  Some things, they do without us even thinking about it!”

Jet: “Yeah! Like how we have two legs… it would be really tiring to only have one leg, hopping so much to get from place to place.  I mean, you’d have to lean against a lot of walls to rest, and it would just take forEVER to get anywhere!”

Me: “Well, yes… that’s true!”

Jet: “Or how you have two hands!  I mean, can you imagine only having one hand?!”

Me: “Well, no -”

Jet: “It would be really hard to pick up certain things, like heavy things!”

Me:  ”Yes, it wou-”

Jet:  ”Or to do other things!”

Me:  ”Like hug -”

Jet:  ”Like operate a crane!”

Me: “… Um, well, I guess you do need two hands to -”

Jet: “Of COURSE you do, Mommy!”

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even necessary for certain conversations….

I finally started that new gig at SpouseBUZZ.  I contribute a post each weekend.  So far, I’ve written about military kids and manners, PCS styles, my experience with the USO.  I wondered about how soon is too soon to have visitors after a PCS, and how to handle a friend’s online OPSEC violation.  I plan to update here each time I post there.  If you’re a military spouse and not currently a regular reader of SpouseBUZZ, I encourage you to spend some time browsing their site.  I’ve found it to be very informative and encouraging.

I’ve been to lots of great restaurants and had lots of great meals.  Sautéed scallops on a bed of limoncello risotto, topped with micro greens and a balsamic vinegar reduction at a seaside place in New Jersey.  Texas de Brazil, an Argentinian churrascaria, has an amazing lobster bisque, endless meats courses that elate my inner carnivore, and a divine creme brûlée.

My dad can grill a thick ribeye or salmon filet that melts in your mouth.  My mom’s pot roast gives the most tantalizing aroma when we walk in after church.  Knight makes killer pecan waffles; those were a Saturday-morning tradition for a long time right after we were married.

I’d have to say that, more than anything else, I love sushi and sashimi.  I think it’s a crime to cook a tuna steak.  Slice it nice and thin, and serve it to me raw with a shallow bowl of soy sauce, and I’m a happy girl.  Salmon sashimi takes the cake, though.  Rich and buttery, it’s just amazing!  Paired with a crisp white wine, and then followed by some sort of cream-filled Italian pastry, and I’m in heaven.

Fortunately, Knight and I have found just such a combination in the town nearby…. and I think I smell a date in my future!

There are times when I am going through something, or thinking through something, and my fingers just itch to spell it all out on my laptop.  I like that I can brain-dump all of my thoughts onto the screen, and then rearrange them into something resembling good writing.  I like the reorganization of my thoughts into something that sounds like a sane person wrote it, instead of the mishmash of mental post-it notes that I usually have flitting about in my head.  I like to make sure it flows and sounds good.

For example, a few months ago, I signed up to give the devotion for our women’s Bible study at today’s meeting.  For the last week or two, I’ve been noodling a topic, and certain scriptures have come to mind.  However, it wasn’t until a few days ago that I just couldn’t stand it anymore and had to sit down to write it all out.  The writing it out, seeing the words on the page, and cutting and pasting and editing are the steps I need to take in order to really think through something.

The Tylenol bottle says that two Tylenol is a dose.

Lots of people think that if two Tylenol is good, then three is better/makes their pain go away faster… Like repeatedly pushing the elevator button.

Ergo, if twenty-one is good, then thirty is better.

So, I’m committing to NaBloPoMo.  Thirty posts, thirty days.  Time to limber up the ol’ writing muscles again.

*By “studies”, I mean “Google”.  That guy knows everything.

Things are finally settling into a routine around here.  We received our household goods a week ago, and most of the boxes are gone, despite Knight leaving to go traipsing through Greece and Germany, per the Army’s “request”.  Lucky guy!  He comes back today, and I’m sure he’s expecting a honey-do list as long as his arm.

He won’t be disappointed.  Heh.  (Do I know how to welcome home my hubby or what?!?  ”Hi, honey, missed you! HowwasyourtripgoodI’mglad!” *smooch* “Now, hang that here and put these together and move that heavy thing and and and…”)

I hit up the PWOC (Protestant Women of the Chapel – yes, even the military CHURCH has acronyms) Bible Study on Tuesday, and am excited to be a part of that group of women.  I’ll be working through John MacArthur’s A Simple Christianity, and am looking forward to it!

Songbird and I have been going to Toddler Story Time at the library each week.  My normally effusive and overly affectionate daughter turns into a shy, delicate flower in this small group.  She doesn’t want to stand up and do the songs and hand motions.  She ducks her chin and shakes her head when The Story Lady asks her a question. She warmed up a little last week, but was still fairly quiet… except for bolting to the door toward the end.  I don’t know what her deal is, but I, for one, enjoy the 10 minutes of relative peace!

The kids and I sat outside eating popsicles yesterday afternoon when there was a rare lull in the conversation.

“So,” I said, matter-of-factly, “why didn’t you want to kiss me before you got on the bus this morning?”

He shrugged and said, matter-of-factly, “I just didn’t.”

“Well, that’s okay,” I said.  ”But why not?”

He ducked his chin a little, slurped his popsicle, and said, quietly, “I just don’t want to be embarrassed.”

And my heart broke a little more.  Bravely, I soldiered on.

“Well, I definitely don’t want to embarrass you.  But your mommy really likes those good-bye kisses.  Sometimes I even need one.  What could we do about that?”

My precious, tender-hearted little boy perked up and said,  ”I can kiss you before we walk out the door!”

My heart skipped a beat, and I said, “That sounds perfect.  Great idea, kiddo.”

This morning, I didn’t even have to ask.  He puckered up and laid a big one on me before we left the house.

I love that little man.

This post is linked up to Finer Things Friday.

I knew this moment would come, but I honestly thought it would take a little longer to get here.  I suppose all mothers think that.

The bus pulled up to the bus stop, and I said to him, brightly, “OK! Bye-bye kiss!”

He threw his arms around me for a hug and then turned to leave.

Uncertainly, I said, “Wait! Kiss!?”

He threw his arms around me again, squeezed me hard, mumbled an embarrassed “No, Mommy” into my neck, and turned to leave.

He climbed onto the bus and never looked back.

This morning, my precious baby boy, who used to look like this:

… and now looks like this:

First day of Second Grade!

… who used to pump his little toddler legs and arms, churning them as fast as he possibly could across the playground to jump into my arms at the end of the day…

… who used to burrow into me and then kiss all of the parts of my face…

… refused to kiss his mommy before he got on the bus this very morning, Day Three of Second Grade.

I knew today would come, and I’m truly glad he’s becoming more independent, but… I really didn’t think it would happen so soon.