Today is Valentine’s Day. I have never cared for this holiday. I don’t feel the need to change my attitude toward it. Even now, as I realize how much I miss married life.
But it’s not what you think.
My relationship with my husband is better than ever. We are stronger, closer and more of a partnership than ever.
Yet, I am unfulfilled as a wife, as a woman who is still crazy in love with her husband. It’s not his fault, and it’s not mine, either.
It’s how things are right now. In the midst of raising two young, adorable but extremely demanding crotchgoblins, getting to that next paycheck with two jobs that require significant amounts of time in our cars and often weekend work shifts, extended family commitments; the fatigue of it all, both mental and physical. Before we know it, all that is left are crumbs of time and ourselves. We are spread so thin right now, both of us. The idea of planning even one night or afternoon a month for a date seems laughable.
I admire people who say they keep “dating their spouses.” I’m not disputing the importance of the practice. I am, however, challenging the pressure it might put on a couple, particularly on women. I have yet to see men’s magazines encouraging their readership to “keep the spark alive” in their marriages. Or articles on “how to keep dating your wives: here are 50 low-budget ideas”. The inherent sexism of the responsibility in planning date night is ridiculous; thankfully, my husband and I couldn’t care less about that. I can confidently say that this is one “task” we contribute to equally. We simply haven’t in a long time. Equally so.
The closest we can get to going on a date is a coffee meet-up while he is between shifts, and I am working remotely. The coffee shop is down the street from where my husband was finishing up a morning round, and it just so happens to be a favourite work spot of mine. This is the most we have been able to get for ourselves. This was two months ago (maybe more?): a little getaway that lasted no more than 30 minutes. And it was spontaneous; I’m sure that if we had tried to plan it, it wouldn’t have worked out.
Here’s the thing: just because we haven’t been on a date in months doesn’t mean our relationship is failing, nor is it de-prioritized. Do we both wish we could take off once a week and do shit people in love do? Duh. Are there days where we look longingly at the airport as we are driving past it, stuck in a car with two screaming bottomless pits of food and high-pitched tantrums? No question.
Let’s be real here: as much as parents love their kids, we can all agree that they are the universe’s greatest cockblockers. They excel at getting in the way of romance; it’s one of their most exceptional talents.
Feeling frisky? Trust your toddler to start screaming bloody murder because the door to his bedroom “is too closed!”
Want to pop a champagne bottle (the mini-sized ones, we’re trying to be reasonable here) with your spouse? That’s the baby’s cue to start teething and demand you present your titties for comfort (while your spouse looks on enviously).
So when Google Photos offers me the neatly packaged stroll down memory lane, “On This Date, 5 Years Ago”, I want to punch a hole in the wall. And comfort myself with cookies as I scroll through every single image of our lives when we were free of all the adulting bullshit that comes packaged with the privilege of parenting.
I envy my younger, more rested and freer self in those photos. I miss my man, having him all to myself and having the freedom to pick up and go to Rome for a getaway because we fucking can, that’s why. We travelled, experienced, laughed, ate, rolled and sunbathed. We saw, we walked, we did so much FUN AND ADVENTUROUS SHIT. Of course I miss it, all of it.
Sometimes when your life changes for the better, it also becomes exponentially harder. Being a parent of happy and healthy children is an incredible luxury. But you have to work your ass off to maintain it. This is why I find romance overrated. Of course we all like being showered with romantic declarations of love. Of course I would take off for a weekend with my husband, even at a cheap-ass roadside motel, if it meant having him all to myself and not having to cook and wipe baby asses. But we can’t. And the beauty of it all is that we both understand this. We both “get it.” We might lament our current predicament and how much sexier our lives used to be. But we do it together. And that is paramount. Infinitely more important than dating each other well into our marriage.
Romance is cute, but partnership and communication are the King and Queen of this joint. I’ll take my man’s whole-hearted commitment and understanding to our dumpster fire chaotic lives over a date night any day, every day, for the rest of my life. We’re in the trenches of this shit show family life of ours. We lose our minds daily: at the kids, at each other, at the damn cats and at the damn rent that keeps going up. But we are an unstoppable unit. We will still be here after all the diapers, the breastfeeding, the snotty noses, the tantrums. The hubs and I will endure it all.
And then maybe we’ll get to go on a fucking date. But the journey to get there will have been exhilarating. And I’m just so grateful that I chose a dude that gets it and who wants nothing more than to ride this crazy trainwreck with me.
