My husband is awesome. He’s thoughtful, honest, romantic, funny, moral and smart.
He’s also a bull in a china shop.
In our nearly eight years together he has broken more of my stuff than I care to recall. I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the fact that if I love it, thinks its cool, or if it was a rare find in a thrift store or I paid a lot of money for it, he will inadvertantly find a way to break, stain, tear, burn or otherwise mar my precious item. It’s
seems like it’s always my stuff.
This week he broke these two items in a matter of about 24 hours.
It appears that this condition of breaking things is genetic. I stood in the kitchen with Izzy as she proudly held this sign in her hands, spelling out the word and watched it crumble in her hands.
It’s probably my fault for liking stuff. Who needs stuff anyway?
::puts cool stuff on a higher shelf::