Archive for May, 2018


Happy Cinco de Miko…olè!


An open love letter to my compadre:

It’s just not easy being married to me.

I feel bad because he probably had no idea what he was leaping into, this poor man.

This guy, my Mike, on a daily basis, deals with frantic phones calls, texts or smoke signals that can include some or all of the following:

“Oh my God, I can’t find my *wallet (*can be replaced with keys, car, iPad, kid, dog.)”

“My tooth fell out.”

“The car is dead and I need to be at work in four minutes.”

“I left my hair straightener on and I’m scared the house is going to burn down.”

“I threw my check in the garbage at the car wash. Last Thursday.”

“At gig. Please bring bra.”

“I’m working the next 17 days straight. Can you bring the kids to appointments, go to games, take them clothes shopping, oh, and we have no food…Mariano’s run, please and I don’t know what we actually need and also, one of the kids, I can’t remember which one, maybe #2, needs school snack tomorrow, homemade, for 40 kids. No peanuts, no gluten, no soy, no sugar, no wheat, no milk and no….something else, but I forgot And, I love you.”

I love you.

I love this guy. Not for the obvious millions of reasons that I have outlined above, even though he could very well be sainted by the Vatican any day now.

I love him for probably about 385 million other reasons.

Also, we never, ever have any fun. Never ever.


But, some highlights:

He is downright loving and kind. He will do anything for anyone. And legitimately be ok with it. He’s not annoyed, put out or angry, even when stressed. And we run very stressed around these parts. No, it’s like this:

Anyone: “Mike; can you do anything in the world for me?”

Mike: “Yes and when.”

That’s about right. In a world where I can’t, because I am late and I have to be in four places 10 minutes ago and I can’t find my pants and I super-glued my shoe to my foot (while still on) and also, I’m dying of some plaque….I’m so sorry, I can’t…

… but he can. I love him.

His parenting skills? Phenomenal.


When I was in labor With the number one, in between my screeches of murder, angst and betrayal, blaming him that he got me pregnant in the first place, I screamed at him to go to the hospital store and grab toothbrushes. My labor progressed faster than we all anticipated and he made it back right in time to see the doctor catch our baby like a football. Touchdown!

While I was gross, shaking and trying to figure out what a placenta was and why I had to push again, I watched him take our baby in his arms and then I saw him cry. (The only other time he cried that hard was during movie “Once”.  Sorry, honey, but true dat.) Love was pouring like rain from his entire body.

And it has not stopped raining for 18 years…the beautiful, light, soft rain that we all love to raise our faces up to, because it feels so good.  That’s my Mike.

Every diaper change, every cry, every ouchie, every touchdown, every first dance, every cough, every sneeze, nighty night book time, tournaments in the rain, college visits, bra shopping (no wait, that was definitely me), gross pet situations, awesome birthday party music, lice…..

He loves us hard and loves us steady, like the strongest rock.

And he’s gorgeous.


And my Lord, but he loves the Cubbies. He didn’t always…he grew up a loyal Sox fan, just like my mom, but as his family would say it’s our fault that we brought him to the dark side. But look, see, this is why he is amazing…he appreciates both. It takes a special person to do that. I love him.  Go Cubbies.

And boy, who doesn’t love DJ Mikey Mike? No one. There is no one that doesn’t love him. Nope. Not a one.

I’ll just leave this right here.


Happy birthday, honey.  I’m sorry you have to deal with me, but I’m blessed that your stuck with me.  We adore you, you complete us and we win because we are loved by you.

Gotta go. The Vatican is calling.


The Wife

Heather Moran

Crazed sulfite-free woman.

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