By: Carlee Karanovic
Before I start, let me say that I adore my husband and kids. They are my world and I wouldn’t have it any other way. And you know a blog post is going to be good when you have to start off with a disclaimer.
When my son was little, he was the most anal retentive person I’d ever met. He’s improved some, that stick up his butt has loosened, but not without a sincere amount of effort on my part. Lately, a memory of him at the age of four has resurfaced in my mind. The timing of said resurfacing was perfect.
You see, he had this train set, one of those wooden numbers with a thousand pieces that need to be interlocked to build amazing train tracks. It kept him busy for hours. I freaking loved that train set. But he had a hard time sharing. He was so controlling and became this miserable tyrant hoarding all the track pieces in his tightly clenched fist. And my daughter, then two, worshipped him. She would do ANYTHING to play with him. Bless her, she is very kind and patient. One day I caught them dumping out the contents of the train set box onto my freshly vacuumed living room floor. Their conversation went like this:
Son: *very serious face* “You do the watching. I’ll do the playing.”
Daughter: *enthusiastically nodding her head* “Okay!”
Fast forward seven years…
Gone are the days of romance and hot sex for me and hubby. We are slaves to the children. Or rather, *I* am. And it’s exhausting. All the dinners that need to be made (every damn day with the dinner! Why do they need to eat every single day?) The mounds of laundry. The dishes left stacked, food crusted on, waiting for me to scrub them and break my nails. The endless amount of homework that only I seem to know how to help with. When I go to bed at night, I want to sleep, thank you very much.
I can’t be the only one.
I can’t be the only wife who looks at her husband strutting towards the bed each night in t-shirts with armpit holes big enough to be mistaken for a head hole, in faded, stretched-out boxer shorts given to him the first year you were together, with a self-important smirk on his face when he utters his most romantic line: “So, you wanna?” while raising his stupid, bushy eyebrows too many times too fast.
Let me be clear. No, I don’t wanna.
So on this particular night, while my husband, dressed in his favorite ratty old t-shirt and faded boxers laid beside me, the room dark and quiet, my mind wandered back to that train set. I wiggled my toes in my footy-pajamas—the ones that scream don’t touch me—and wondered when we became these people. We used to be hot for each other. He used to send me flowers. We used to spend the evening cuddling up, talking about how our marriage was better than everyone else’s. We used to screw like bunnies.
Then I realized my kids used to go to bed at 7:30 and took naps. I wasn’t this exhausted.
I started to worry. What if we lost what was good about us? What if all the good times, the hot sex was behind us? What does that mean for our future? You know, the kind of thoughts you want to be having right before you fall asleep—the kind that keep you up all night.
Have no fear, my husband saved me from all that worrying.
I very timidly said, “I love you.”
Husband stretched, yawned, might have farted. “I love you, too.”
So robotic. So unromantic.
I couldn’t help myself. “Do you really?”
Husband, confused, yawning again. “Do I really what?”
Husband gasped. “Of course I really love you. What’s that supposed to mean? Do you really love me?”
Uh oh. What did I start? “Of course I do. I’m here, right?”
Husband settles down and pulls the covers up too high so my footy pajamas poke out from the end of the blanket. “Of course you do. I’m your shining star.”
Blink…blink…“You’re my what?”
“Your shining star,” and added, “shooting across your black sky.”
*suppresses giggle* “If you’re my shining star, what does that make me?”
He thought hard about his answer for all of five seconds. “You’re my star gazer.”
Hands off, ladies, he’s mine all mine.
I let that laugh out, full on, and rolled over. I’m not worried anymore. Instead I thought about my kids playing with the train set.
Valentine’s Day is coming up. When hubby comes to bed, all ready and expecting to be serviced, I’m going to remind him I’m just a star gazer.
“You have the sex all by yourself,” I’ll say. “I’ll do the watching.”
Weird Things you do for your kids but not Strangers goo.gl/fb/oVuwvG
Tis the season! pic.twitter.com/5VgMLnt22E
I am weak pic.twitter.com/LYdRQ6EZcC
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