Quality Time

I just mounted a brass door knocker on my bedroom door - at bellybutton height. It looks ridiculous, but it's one in a series of desperate attempts to carve out some quality time with my husband.

You see, we have two children (3 and 5), whom we love boundlessly, but who are wandering through life under the mistaken assumption that my husband and I are the hired help. We fetch them juice, snacks, toys from the recesses of their closets, and clean clothes. We push them around in comfy carriages, so they don't have to wear themselves out walking (does anybody besides me see the irony here?) All of this servitude takes a hefty bite out of our allotment for marital maintenance.

This was a part of parenting that we hadn't expected.

Quite predictably, as tiny, essentially immobile bundles of joy, they impacted our lives heavily. We were always (I mean ALWAYS) tired. Our quality conversations centered around the color of poop. And we became mind-numbingly boring to our child-free friends. The fact that a single 8-pound entity, who statistically sleeps 20 hours per day, can consume your life belies the truth: that those 20 hours come in 18-minute cat-naps punctuated by brain-melting vocal exercises. Thus, they command virtually every moment BOTH parents' time, leaving only enough to furtively do a load of laundry or two (though not enough to get, say, any of *your clothes done).

It continues to amaze me that couples find the time to conceive more children, never mind take care of them. This anomaly may be due to the fact that although it may take upwards of a year of aggressively sperm-friendly conditions to plant the first seed, subsequent conceptions can take place just by staring longingly into each others' eyes over a peanut butter sandwich.

We thought the time-strain would ease up once the kids exited the "physical care" stage. They'd play together. We'd have more time then, (surely!) to enjoy such frivolities as *conversation. We were looking forward to the novelty of actually eating our dinner while it was still warm. We'd hoped to re-introduce ourselves to those long-ignored friends. And each other. But it didn't work out that way. Now the children command entertainment, and require mental stimulation. Which pretty much means that when I'm not the caretaker, or the cook, or the nurse, I'm the playmate, or the teacher, or the jester. Or (in a pinch) "the lady who knows how to work the VCR."

And still I haven't as much time with my husband as I'd like. But it's not as bad as it sounds. I've gotten to observe him in some of life's finest moments. I've seen him grow up, and yield to his nurturing side. This makes him more attractive to me. I'm continually impressed by his natural ability with and interest in the kids. I love him and want him more, even, than when we were newlyweds. And, it seems, to my delight, that the converse is also true. The difficulty in finding windows of opportunity to "express our mutual appreciation" only makes that expression more intense.

Those who think all the excitement is gone after years of marriage mixed with a few kids, because intimacy is safe, predictable, and/or accessible - obviously aren't married with children. It's never been LESS safe! We've got locks and knockers and even a security system that chirps when doors open and close. My kids, apparently, aspire to be Houdini. I tell you, I can't imagine that the scowl of an authority figure would have anything of the coronary impact that the puzzled look of a pre-schooler has in this compromised position.

Parenting is to a marriage what hazing is to a fraternity pledge. What might from the outside look absurdly punishing, forges a stronger bond. Out of humiliation comes loyalty. I'm not sure why that is, exactly, but you can't find a SINGLE person on the face of the earth that'll tell you they regret having kids.

I certainly don't!