While browsing Walmart’s Valentine card selection the other day, I kept coming across variations on a theme: “They say that the longer a couple stays together, the more they start to look alike. Good thing we’re both so good looking!” Apart from the fact that this trope is not particularly funny, I eschew cards emblazoned with it because it’s simply not true of Mr. Burt and me. (Though, come to think of it, I do wear a lot more t-shirts and hoodies than I did when I met him eight years ago…)

Now, if there were cards that said, “They say that the longer a couple stays together, the more they start to think alike. Good thing we’re both so exceptionally intelligent and clever!” I’d be all over those.

Then again, that truth may be self-evident without its being expressed on a greeting card.

We don’t go overboard on Valentine’s Day in the Burt house, but we do celebrate it. I mean, why wouldn’t you take advantage of an excuse to exchange silly cards and eat candy and have sex? Not to mention it’s such a cute holiday–and you know a holiday’s legit when it’s got its own kitchen towels and dishes. (I’ve got the dishes, but will be hitting Target or Kohls tomorrow for clearance decor.)

And sock monkeys.

When I saw the sock monkeys at Walmart, in Valentine pinks and reds (or robin’s egg blue or jailbird stripes for the men in your life) with hearts stitched on their chests, I caved to consumer pressure and bought a pair for Mr. Burt and the Burt Squirt. (Monkeys are a bit of a thing in our house, what with Mr. Burt being a code monkey and the Burt Squirt just being a plain monkey and owning a bit of monkey paraphernalia. But I won’t pretend that any other thought than Must have Love Monkeys! influenced my decision to buy.)

Friday night, Mr. Burt went out to do a bit of Valentine shopping for me. Before he left, I told him he didn’t have to make a big deal of it.

“I just got you something little and silly,” I said. And lingerie. But I’m not so into being Even Steven that I wanted Mr. Burt to come home from Walmart with silk boxers or, God forbid, a banana hammock, so I kept that part to myself.

As it turned out, our Valentine gift exchange was a little more Even Steven than I’d imagined. Actually, I had imagined that Mr. Burt might be taken with Walmart’s Love Monkeys (that’s kind of a disturbing phrase, and I will never use it again) as I had been, and wouldn’t it be funny if he got me one, too? But I didn’t really think he would, as just a few days prior I’d remarked about how much I’m missing that gene that cares about stuffed animals.

Anyway, Mr. Burt opened his Valentine present from me and drew out a black and white-striped Love Monkey.

I opened my Valentine present from Mr. Burt and drew out a red Love Monkey.

(And when a boy Love Monkey loves a girl Love Monkey very much…)

If the Love Monkeys alone didn’t prove just how similarly Mr. Burt and I think, there was also the little issue of our Valentine date destination.

Earlier in the week I’d emailed my mom to ask if she’d be free to babysit Saturday, and when she wrote back to ask what time she should come over, I asked Mr. Burt, who was at his computer, when he wanted to go out.

“Noonish,” he said.

“What do you want to do at noon?”

“Hang on, let me check.” He started clicking around with his mouse.

“Check what?”

He didn’t answer my question, just said, “Yep, that’ll work.”

“What’ll work?” I asked, confused and intrigued, because we hadn’t even discussed what we might do for Valentine’s Day, not having secured Squirt care until the moment before.

“It’s a surprise.”

A surprise would be fun–except that I had this not-so-surprising feeling that Mr. Burt was going to take me ice skating. I had no good reason for suspecting this. We hadn’t discussed ice skating, not in relation to Valentine’s Day; a few weeks earlier the Groupon had been for ice skating, but when I mentioned it to Mr. Burt he was in the middle of a computer game and it’s a crapshoot whether he’ll hear you or not when you talk to him while he’s gaming.

Sure enough, Saturday rolled around, and when Mr. Burt asked me if I had any idea where we were going and I told him I thought he was taking me ice skating, his mouth fell open and he said, “How did you know? I didn’t give you any hints at all.”

It was true. We hadn’t discussed our Valentine date at all. And I hadn’t seen his email confirming his coupon purchase, because we have separate email accounts on separate computers. And the coupon he’d purchased hadn’t even been the Groupon one I told him about before.

“That’s not fair,” Mr. Burt whined as we drove down the tollway toward Stonebriar Mall. “I wanted to surprise you.”

I patted his arm consolingly. “You couldn’t have done anything differently. There’s just no accounting for ESP.”

We’re just a couple of Love Monkeys, with two hearts that beat as one.

(And we’re not too shabby on the ice, either.)

More often than not these days, the Burt Squirt’s feet look like this, in need of a little TLC at bath time. Because, at eleven months old–that’s right, eleven months, which means invitations have been sent for the first birthday party–the Burt Squirt’s primary mode of locomotion is walking.

Actually, that’s not quite true. About the little dirty feet, not the walking. It’s wintertime, so most days, the Burt Squirt wears socks, the removal of which reveals lint, not dirt. Of course, soggy lint stuck between sweaty little toes isn’t exactly pleasant, but parenting is all about perspective: toe jam is less gross than poopy diapers. But wintertime in Texas means that in between freak cold snaps and snow storms, we get the occasional day of 80 degrees, which means barefoot walks in the grass at the Dallas Arboretum–yes, even for babies.

The Burt Squirt took his first steps at nine months, while on Skype with Mimi and Papa in Minnesota, and now is toddling quite proficiently, even if his swaying gait with his arms up for balance is a bit reminiscent of a baboon. A month ago we had to coax him to walk, but now he’d rather walk than crawl, and pretty much only crawls if he’s fallen down in the middle of a room without a piece of furniture or person on which to pull up. Because the boy put the foot in front of…the other foot and didn’t bother to learn how to stand himself up before he took of walking.

He has, however, figured out that banana puffs are a yummy snack, as well as a source of future blackmail great amusement for Mom and Dad, though we first endured a few false starts that resulted in the Burt Squirt being quite possibly the only baby ever to gag on–and, consequently, throw up–a food that’s designed to dissolve almost instantly in his mouth. I’m beginning to fear he’s inherited the hair-trigger gag reflex that makes it impossible for his mother to swallow pills, as all of the stage three baby foods that involve chunks and/or thick textures come right back up again. Technically we’re following the pediatrician’s advice to be eating stage three baby foods by now; the Burt Squirt gobbles up the stage three jars of apples, pears, bananas, strawberry bananas, squash, and sweet potatoes–in addition to stage two everything else.

The fact that he’s only got 2.5 teeth–we just felt his top left tooth cut through two days ago–probably plays a big role in the food issues, so I’m antsy for more to come in–unless they look like the banana puff teeth, in which case he can just go on slurping down purées for the rest of his life. (Come to think of it, this would save us a lot of money in the long term, in both the dentistry and tooth fairy departments.) At least I’d never be deprived of that gummy smile beaming up at me…

The Burt Squirt is still, very much, a mama’s boy. He can have all the toys he could want all around him, but he’ll abandon playing with them to be wherever I am. (If only he realized that the way to a mother’s heart is not to give her a heart attack by climbing two flights of stairs when she runs upstairs for all of thirty seconds to check the clothes in the dryer–that’ll teach me not to put up the baby gate.) Or maybe it’s just that the contents of the kitchen cupboards really are more interesting than all the baby stuff that’s placed so easily within his reach. I don’t claim to be gifted at math, but I think even the finest mathematical mind (especially when afflicted with Mommy Brain) would be hard-pressed to keep count of how many times a day I put the tupperware back in its cupboard. (For an added bonus, that once perpetually messy cupboard is now constantly organized; who needs a Smart Spin?) He’s also obsessed with the dishwasher, which, coupled with his continued love affair with the vacuum (though in all fairness, who wouldn’t love a Dyson?) gives me great hope that in a few years time, the Burt Squirt will willingly take over all housework so Mommy can get back to writing books.

But in the meantime, Mommy will happily settle for reading books–the Burt Squirt’s current favorite being B is for Bear (though I’m managing to find the time for books that don’t rhyme or have fuzzy teddy bear ears to pet). That bit of baby-lit was a gift from Uncle Greg and Aunt-to-Be Meaghan, who have relieved us of the responsibility of indoctrinating the Burt Squirt to grow up and become a Baylor Bear. Though they may have their work cut out for them, as Uncle Peter and Auntie Ashley seem to be determined that the Burt Squirt will be the youngest-ever player drafted to the Minnesota Vikings (who might have made it to the Super Bowl if Brett Favre had had the Burt Squirt to throw to). And the Burt Squirt does already like to play ball–even if his version looks more like a puppy playing fetch (complete with panting and his tongue sticking out…though that could also describe Michael Jordan). He also likes music, particularly playing Daddy’s guitar, which is kept on a stand in the office where he can toddle right up to it and strum away (usually with his fingers, but occasionally with tupperware bowls or toy firemen), or the piano, which is a little less accessible but makes a lot of great noise. Or maybe he’s going to be the next Gunther Gebel-Williams, as seems likely by the way he laughs in the face of Dorrie hissing at him, and how he got the hang of chasing her around playing with her with a cat toy after I showed him how.

It’s so much fun to see The Burt Squirt’s interests coming out a little more with every passing day, and Mr. Burt and I are excited to see where his talents and passions lie in years to come.

And speaking of years, where–No, I won’t finish that thought. I may have Mommy Brain, but I refuse to be reduced to a total Mommy Cliché. Instead I’ll just say I’d better get cracking planning the party to celebrate the first year!

It’s a recurring joke between Mr. Burt and me that the first time we vacationed at Walt Disney World, on our honeymoon, we were too broke to eat.

That was the truth. We could only afford the trip in the first place because Mr. Burt’s parents took all the other Burt kids and Burt grandkids to Cancun that summer and gave us the money that would have been our portion of the family vacation. Due to our marrying right out of college (literally, a few weeks after Mr. Burt graduated and before he started his job) tight would be a generous word to describe our budget: Mr. Burt worked at Olive Garden all four years at Baylor to pay for room and board, textbooks, and student fees, and even with the IT job he took his senior year in addition to waiting tables, only managed to scrape by on his living expenses with a very little left over for dates (his entire savings up to that point had gone to buy my engagement ring–which was perfect for my tiny ring finger, but by no means a rock by anyone’s standards); I worked on and off at department stores but, to my chagrin, brought all of $70 into our marriage because I have no self-control when working around clothes.

When Mr. Burt and I arrived at Walt Disney World, we had X dollars in our budget with absolutely no wiggle room, because that was all there was in the bank. We didn’t even have a credit card, though if we had, Mr. Burt was smart enough to know that starting your marriage broke was less than desirable but not the end of the world when you had a good job lined up, but starting it in debt because of your honeymoon was not a good financial precedent to set.

So, we made like Oregon Trail and limited our rations to bare bones. We splurged on a character breakfast buffet our first morning at the Magic Kingdom, but the rest of the week our first stop was an Epcot cafe where we could get cheap (by Disney standards) pastries and breakfast burritos. And split an orange juice. We’d skip lunch, maybe share an ice cream early afternoon if we were desperate, and ate a late lunch/early dinner, frequently splitting that meal. Not exactly taking advantage of the many unique and delicious dining opportunities Walt Disney World affords honeymooners, but it was what we could afford that won the day, and anyway,we didn’t really care that much about eating because…it was our honeymoon.

Thus it was that when our hunger pangs subsided and faded, as did all but our very best memories from that wonderful first week of marriage, being too poor to eat on our honeymoon became a joke.

There’s nothing like old photos to give you a shocking dose reality.

Take, for example, one of the few pictures of one of our honeymoon meals (indeed, one of our few honeymoon pictures, period, as we were also too poor for a proper camera and made due with four 27-exposure disposable cameras, the developing of which also pinched):

Two drinks. One blob of mashed potatoes. One prime rib. Oh, and not pictured, a minuscule Caesar salad. For two adults who hadn’t eaten anything all day except a cheese Danish and a breakfast burrito and possibly an Lemon Chill because we were about to die of heatstroke standing in line for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. And that was a splurge.

“Remember how excited we were?” Mr. Burt said as we boggled at the picture last night. “We sat there at that table and said, ‘All right, we’re gonna have prime rib tonight!’ A little bit of prime rib. Geez, I feel so bad for us!”

I didn’t feel bad for us. I was too busy laughing at our naïve, dazed-by-our-own-happiness newlywed selves till my stomach hurt and tears tracked mascara down my cheeks.

It’s little wonder when we returned to Walt Disney World five years later for our second honeymoon, our package including a Disney Dining Plan, that we reacted to our first meal like this:

While we may feel a little sorry that First Honeymoon Mr. and LR Burt didn’t get to fully enjoy all Disney has to offer, we thank them for having the good sense not to have made that honeymoon a financial burden, or else we might not have been able to go back five years later for seconds.

We definitely wouldn’t have appreciated what it means to have full bellies. (Too full; eighteen months later, we’re still trying to work off the pounds we put on during that trip! Luckily for me, I also had a baby during that time. Children: the eternal scapegoats–but that’s another post…)

“It’s like he knows it’s Christmas,” Mr. Burt moaned, sometime between 3:30 and 4 on Christmas morning. We were staying with my parents, and the Burt Squirt had been awake since 1:30. Mostly chattering and chuckling as Mr. Burt snuggled with him in our bed, rocking having failed to produce any result than making our nine month-old scream.

I replied that I’d been about to say the same thing. While I wasn’t surprised to have passed on the inability to sleep on Christmas Eve that had plagued me since childhood, I hadn’t expected that trait to manifest in the Burt Squirt at such an early age. Especially since he virtually ignored Christmas trees and burst into tears at the mere sight of Santa Claus.

As it turned out, Christmas Day showed us the true reason for the Burt Squirt’s restlessness:

He cut his first tooth.

Which, I suppose, was a rather Christmassy thing to do. (Clever boy.)

Maybe that was why he cried when he sat in Santa’s lap: he told him he wanted teeth, but he knew it was really going to hurt. (Poor baby.)

The Yuletide teething didn’t catch us completely unawares, as the previous day’s lunch at Braums gave a revelatory glimpse of a whole mouthful of chompers ready to pop.

Yes, that’s a plastic ketchup cup we let the Burt Squirt play with while we ate our hamburgers and ice cream cones. (Inventive lad.)

Lucky for the Burt Squirt–not to mention the parents desperate to distract a grumpy teething baby–he didn’t just get his bottom front tooth for Christmas:

That’s just Liam’s pile.

Not even thinking about that new tooth!

Well, maybe even a pony, Woody doll, musical walking toy, phone, garage and trucks, snappy beads, talking stuffed dog, ball, and alphabet puzzle mat don’t totally make up for teething.

But even if we were a little sore–and sleepy–we still had a very happy first Burt Christmas.

When Mr. Burt and my parents asked me what I want for Christmas this year, I had a hard time coming up with anything. (This is saying a lot, considering my Christmas lists used to bear an alarming resemblance to Sally Brown’s.) It was much easier for me to come up with what I don’t want (heavy sweaters, sweatshirts, button-down shirts that have to be ironed…to which Mr. Burt replied in bemusement, “Does that leave anything at all for me to give you?” and which may not be so far removed from old Sally after all); I’m content with the things I have, and there’s very little else that I need.

Except for sleep. But last I checked, sleep doesn’t come gift-wrapped.

It’s been two weeks since Mr. Burt and I had a good, solid night of sleep, thanks to the Burt Squirt going through one of those physical development stages (learning how to pull himself up on the crib rail and beginning to walk) notorious for throwing off sleep schedules. (Also, gas.) Mr. Burt, I think, is actually getting less sleep than I am most nights–though apparently he’s not keeping count.

I, however, am.

Now, I learned rather early on in this parenthood venture that score-keeping is the quickest way to lose the marriage game, so it’s not that I’m sitting up in the middle of the night doing fuzzy math as the Burt Squirt nurses and resenting Mr. Burt for being snuggled up in bed. No, I’ve developed a more noble kind of arithmetic that revolves around me obsessing over Mr. Burt getting as much sleep as I do. Or me losing as much as he does. And me feeling guilty if I get more. Because that just wouldn’t be fair, would it?

A word problem:

If LR goes to sleep at 11ish at night and Mr. Burt at 11:30ish and the Burt Squirt wakes up at 1:30ish in the morning and Mr. Burt gets up with him, not coming back to bed until 3:00ish, how many hours of sleep did LR and Mr. Burt get if LR only slept intermittently during the hour and a half Mr. Burt was trying to soothe the Burt Squirt back to sleep and then got up to feed the Burt Squirt from 3:00ish until 3:30ish but was too wired to fall asleep until after 4ish and then was up at 7ish and Mr. Burt got up at 8ish?

I never was able to come up with an exact answer to my muddled math problem, but I got the gist of it across to Mr. Burt in conversation as we showered and dressed this morning:

LR: “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t sleep very much while you were up with the Burt Squirt.”

Mr. Burt: “Why would that make me feel better?”

LR: “Because we got the same amount of sleep. Misery loves company.”

Mr. Burt: “Oh. I’d rather you actually get sleep.”

For the first time in nine months of being a mom (and in six and a half years of being a wife, really, because I’ve always struggled with (unfounded) feelings of guilt and fear that Mr. Burt might resent me for not being a monetary contributor in our relationship), it hit me:

I don’t have to feel guilty about getting more sleep than my husband does.

Because he loves me.

And fairness and equality, while both very essential ingredients for a successful marriage, don’t have all that much to do with love.

Misery may love company, but love hates misery. After all, love is why we get up when the Burt Squirt cries in the middle of the night and lose all this sleep in the first place.

It brings to mind the words of one of my favorite Christmas carols: What I can I give Him / Give my heart.

Mr. Burt may not be able to give me exactly what I want for Christmas, but he gives me the one thing I really need.

As for sleep…maybe that’s what the Burt Squirt will give to me.