From Bibbity Bobbity to Bowm Chicka Bowm Bowwwm

I don’t know about other new parents, but for me and C, finding time to be romantic with one another has been SUCH a challenge since the birth of our daughter. I mean, between the diaper changes and the breastfeeding and getting applesauce off of the couch, our lifestyle doesn’t exactly “set the mood,” you know? The smooth tones of Barry White have been replaced by Barney’s goofy drawl, and the general vibe in our house is much more “bibbitty bobbity boo” than it is “bowm chicka bowm bowwwm”.

To be honest, we’ve kind of hit the “snooze” button on THAT part of our relationship for the past seventeen months (e-gads). My husband and I have continually spoken about reintroducing the romance in our lives, and how we really need to get our collective mojo going again. But despite our good intentions, we’ve spent most of our Emmy’s-asleep-NOW-what-are-we-gonna-do hours either watching t.v. (holding hands) or engrossed in our own reading, writing, etc. (not holding hands).

Em’s sleeping habits have become more consistent these last few weeks, and we can (FINALLY) rely on her STAYING asleep for at least 2 to 3 hours before her first nighttime waking. So the big excuse that we used to use, which was “what if the baby wakes up while we are ahem aheming?” is no longer valid.

The thing is, come 8:00 p.m., C and I are both EXHAUSTED. We are mentally, physically, AND emotionally depleted from our workdays, from getting chores done, and from caring for Emmy. We’ve got nothing left to give. We’ve turned into amoebas. And as much as we’d LIKE to spend some quality time with one another, it is hard for an amoeba to feel hot and frisky.
But rather than making up NEW excuses, and despite the fact that I feel like a one-celled organism, I find myself wanting to overcome all the obstacles. Dang it, this amoeba needs to get her FREAK ON.

I want my husband back. I want to know him again, not just as the guy who does a great job chasing Emmy around and cleaning the kitchen and raking the yard, but as the guy who is a great kisser, and the guy whose arms I love wrapped around my body. I want to spend less of our limited time together talking about how many poops Emmy had, and more time DOING ANYTHING more romantic than talking about toddler poop.

So I’m making efforts. But it’s not easy. Even when we dim the lights, and draw the shades, and put on some sweet music, it takes me quite a while to switch gears. When my husband and I start kissing, I’m still thinking about what I am going to pack for Emmy’s lunch the next day. And the shopping list. And whether I’ll have any clean clothes to wear to work. I’d say it takes a good five to ten minutes of face sucking (sorry, I’m trying not to be vulgar here but some subjects warrant a bit of vulgarity) before I mentally get out of my mommy headspace.

But when I DO manage to get out of my mama head? It’s blissful. In my husband’s arms, I can slowly forget about the chores, and work, and all sorts of other mama drama. My worn out self is taken over by love and energy, and I just live in the moment. Yayyyy.

Breaking old patterns is kinda difficult, but I’m hoping that by making a concerted effort to make our alone time more special, it will get easier and easier for my husband and I to fall into a NEW pattern that encourages closeness, rather than separation. I know that rekindling our romance will make other aspects of our partnership better as well, and may even make parenting easier in some ways.

Have you and your husband hit the same “snooze” button as we have? Have you found ways of getting over the amoeba-like feeling so that the romance could sneak back into your lives?

I’d love to hear from you.

Honey? We’ve Got a Change in Plans.

Seriously, I should have known better than to plan an “alone day” with my husband.

We were all excited. Theoretically speaking, it was going to be an amazing day. C doesn’t work on Mondays, and I had President’s Day off from work. We were going to drop Em off at Baba and Grampy’s house, get a few chores done (so we wouldn’t feel completely guilty about skipping out on our daughter and parents), then go to the gym together (woot! woot!), have lunch together by ourselves (a miracle!), and go see a movie IN the movie theater (shut the front door!) And yessiree bob, we also had other scandalous activities planned (ok. now make sure the front door is locked… and close the blinds… and take the phone off the hook… is your cell phone turned off, honey?)

That is, until about 2 a.m. on Monday morning, when I started feeling horribly nauseous. At first I thought I might be pregnant, and got super excited about my stomach ache. Yay nausea! And then the nausea wouldn’t go away. And then I took a pregnancy test. And then I knew I just had a stomach bug. Booooo.

At 7:00 a.m., I told my husband we might have to curtail our plans slightly to accommodate the large ulcer that was apparently forming in my stomach lining. But being that this was the first day we had planned to have all to ourselves in over sixteen months, I was not going to be easily discouraged. I looked down at my belly and said “belly, listen here. I’ve got an awesome day planned with my hubby, and I need you to cooperate.”

At 9:00 a.m. I dropped Em off at Baba and Grampy’s. Yeah, I felt a little guilty dropping her off, but the fact that I was feeling a little less than healthy lessened the guilt considerably. I was not feeling my most energetic, and was pretty sure that Emmy was going to have a better time with her grandparents than she would be able to have with a nauseous (and by now a little bit achy and sweaty) mama.

Still undeterred, I told my husband I would be ABSOLUTELY FINE continuing with our plans as scheduled. So we both donned our gym clothes and hopped in the car. Ok, maybe he hopped and I hobbled. As we drove to the gym, I gave myself a little pep talk, a la “I think I can I think I can I think I can”.

As it turns out, I couldn’t. After fifteen minutes on the stationary bike, I was a shaky sweat bomb and thought I was going to die. I played it cool, though. I told my hubby (who was still cruising along on his own stationary bike) that I was just gonna go lift some weights. Work on my lovely lady bumps, you know? After giving him a deceiving “thumbs up”, I went and found a machine I could sit down on. C finished his workout and found me, still all smiles, feigning strength as I completed my thigh abductions (pretty sure I completed five reps in thirty minutes).

We returned home to freshen up before lunch and a movie. Oh yes, people. That’s right. I was not going to let my nausea, cold sweats, dizziness, body aches and utter exhaustion get the better of me! I had my husband all to myself, and I was going to enjoy it if it killed me.

We went to a busy Panera’s where I could get a non-offensive bowl of chicken soup which, despite my endless nausea, tasted great.

Then we went to see Safe House in a real movie theater. And guess what, folks? I ordered popcorn! Yup, I told my husband that it was probably going to go down in history as the stupidest decision a human being has ever made, but I wanted the COMPLETE movie experience, and that experience included the taste of buttery popcorn in my mouth, gosh darnit. To my credit, though my husband suggested we sit directly behind the kind old lady in the row in front of us, I suggested that in order for us to avoid making the six o’clock news, we should probably scoot a few seats over. That way, if my stomach rejected the popcorn I so desired, there would at least be no innocent victims caught in the crossfire.

Side note #1: In my opinion, Safe House is a decent action-adventure movie.
Side note #2: To the couple leaving the theater who claimed the movie was horrible AND sooo boring: Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but I don’t think “boring” is the adjective you were looking for. Do me a favor. Check the dictionary.
Side note #3: Lesson learned from Safe House: If Denzel Washington ever looks at you like you are stupid, you are probably indeed very very stupid.

After the movie, C and I went to pick Emmy up. No detour back to our house for a little hanky-panky, which was probably for the best. Though I had been able to keep the popcorn I ate down through the duration of the movie, I was nervous that it might make a reappearance during a moment of intimacy, and that thought alone was enough to make us ixnay the exsay.

Poor Em. By the time we brought her home that afternoon, mama’s aggressive germies had attacked her, too.

Poor hubby. By the next morning, he was home from work, laid out on the couch, with the same tummy issues.

And I stayed home from work to try to make sure everyone was ok.

Serves me right for planning a day alone with my husband. Next time there’s a possibility of us having a day to ourselves (sometime in 2047?), I’m not going to plan a single thing. Because as sure as the sun does rise, as soon as I plan something, evil germs with superpowers and capes will hear the news and start planning their attack.

I should have known better, but at least I’ll know better for next time.