I watched a couple kids over the weekend as per the Marriage Conference and there being a general lack of single people around, I was asked to by Nancy, regardless of what people may be thinking in their heads... Have I ever even seen Rachel around a small child? But I have been around two small children now.

On Saturday, I woke up on the couch to Isaac yelling my name from his bedroom. I thought it was still around 4a.m., (it was 7:30)
"MISS RACHEL, I WET THE BED!"
"No you didn't, you are wearing a pull-up." I told him.
"Oh. Can I get up now?"
"I guess."

And I realized, when you have kids, not only do you work all week to put their needs first, but you also have to do this all weekend. And when you were twenty two, you could wake up late, eat waffles, go back to bed, and then watch OnDemand all day until you apply your face and go to church.
I heaved a sigh of relief that I am still twenty two, and I vowed to let my poor future children watch as many episodes of Alec-Baldwin-narrated-Thomas-the-Tank-Engine as they want on Saturdays. But also to teach them to read when they are four. Maybe this will even things out.

"You are married, right?" Isaac asked me at lunch time.
"Ha! Noooooo. Definitely not."
"You are married!" He yelled at me, and put on his pouty face, which he does whenever you contradict anything he says.
"Nope. If I was married, I would be at the marriage conference, or at home watching my kids. Why do you think I am married?"
"BECAUSE YOU ARE MARRIED." He yelled back.
"Okay."

Sometimes, after a glass of wine, I think I am married. To Bob. I think Bob and I live in Holladay or Salt Lake, and that he is kind enough to me to never think about getting a dog. I don't think about how we ended up married, but we accidentally did, and I sleep well at night because of the gun sitting on the night-stand. We do not have a car-port, because car-ports are terrifying. Car-ports are always the beginnings of my worst nightmares ending in me chopping at the brachial or carotid arteries of a bad guy with a car key.

I think I dream this dream because of reading my friend Kristie's blog, and she seems to live in a gingerbread house and writes her life in lists of things she's living through with her husband.

Bob, maybe if I had let you ask me to dance instead of running and hiding in the bathroom, we could have had this life together. But you are fine and I am fine too.

Bob,
I say these things to you now from some distance, because I came to you on my knees. I came to you a broken woman, but you wormed your way out of my arms.
I was ready to become clean. I was willing to take back my opinions on spending all my years with just one man.
I was re-reading your love letters to me, and starting to feel something.
But you set me free.
You let me go, and somewhere down the road I'll be happy about it.
I'll move back into my selfish ways and move through rooms alone.
I asked you for this, and I know about too late. I'm feeling too late now.

I'll lock up the map back to the first moments you needed me.
These are the first moments I've needed you.
If our affections could only happen at the same time.

Goodbye. I'm yours sincerely.

This man, today. Well, he hands me his credit card after telling me to write the name "Bob" on his cup. He is maybe 27 or 28 years old, and suddenly I am having a flashback as I run my fingers over the embossed named "Robert" on the plastic card.
I forgot about Bob, and how I sorta thought I loved him.
I forgot about my feelings.
That one day, we showed up on a Sunday, and I'd almost died in the snow on the way to the bank, and there he was, wearing a hoodie, and I'd never seen him wear normal clothes. He was mysterious and secretive, and seeing him wearing normal clothes made me realize all the parts of his life he wasn't telling me from 2:30 to 6:15 each day.

Another day when Tanya insisted to Bob, that he take me as his date to her wedding, and then when I ran to the bathroom instead of letting him ask me to dance.
It was always the wrong timing for me and Bob.

But I think the major reason of our failed romance was that I don't think I will ever like Family Guy.

I always wonder what'd be like to be married to Bob Dylan.
When he was younger, and changing the world a lot.

I wonder what he'd say, when we got up and ate breakfast. Or when we'd look through the mail. I wonder if he wouldn't speak to me at all, and if we'd hate each other.
If he'd write songs about me. If he would keep a fishtank.

I just wonder what it would be like for the woman that was married to him. I need to read his biography I think.
That's what's next in knowing.