10/10/2024
"In 2019, my husband and I were married and had just bought our first home together. For the first time in our young adult lives, we had disposable income. We had more free time than we knew what to do with. We lived in a bubble of romantic dinners, spontaneous vacations, lazy weekends in bed.
Sometimes I dream of those early days as I lie awake in our bed, smushed between our toddler and 6-month-old baby, as my husband snores on the couch in the living room so he doesn't wake us up when he goes to work at the crack of dawn.
We eat dinner in shifts, taking turns holding the baby and mopping spilled milk off the kitchen floor. Spontaneous vacations have been replaced with spontaneous trips to the grocery store, because running out of coffee constitutes an emergency these days.
Of course we wouldn't trade it for anything, but there's a reason why they call this season 'the trenches.' Our bubble of perpetual togetherness popped a long time ago. Sometimes our lives feel like two separate bubbles, orbiting each other but never merging.
I don't remember who started 'the date rule.' It began as a joke shortly after our oldest child was born. We left her with my mom for the first time so we could run some short, mundane errand that would have been impossible with a baby.
It was the first time we had been alone together since we brought her home, so we decided to pretend that we were on a date. We held hands in the car. We listened to 'our songs.' No phones allowed, and no talking about our kids.
By the time we returned home, we were giddy with satisfaction at our stolen time together. We felt like we had cheated the system.
From then on, anytime we found ourselves alone together, we made it a rule that we were automatically on a date. It didn't matter what we were doing—we had to treat it like an occasion.
We held hands walking into the hardware store. We kissed in the gas station parking lot. We made a point to ask about the other’s feelings, check in on our mental health, and brainstorm ways to better support each other. No phones. No talking about the kids.
When our second was born, we amended the rule: even if we had a kid or two with us, if they were asleep or otherwise occupied, it was still a date. Any uninterrupted time together was quality time.
The result of this rule is that we found ourselves on some hilariously unromantic 'dates.' Finding creative ways to incorporate emotional and physical affection into an otherwise boring, annoying, or stressful task became a game.
One of my favorite recent memories is when I was pregnant with our second and we left our toddler with my mom to go buy a car. The smooth-talking salesman suggested, 'Why don't we go ahead and make a deal so you two can get on with your day? I'm sure you have more fun things to do than sit here with me.'
My husband put his arm around me and replied, 'Actually, we’re on a date right now, so we're having a great time. We wouldn't mind staying all day.'
Even though this idea felt revolutionary to us at the time, I’ve come to realize that it isn't. Early in our relationship, when just being together felt magical, we naturally blurred the lines between romance and 'real life.'
We held hands in the car while running errands. We snuggled together on the couch while paying bills. We talked about our hopes and dreams and greatest fears while washing dishes.
We didn't realize, at the time, that these moments—not the big, spontaneous, romantic gestures—were the foundation of our relationship. That someday, when the currents of early parenthood pulled us apart, moments like these would bring us back together."
Shared with permission via Siel Studer
Credit to the respective owner ✍️
