We’re alive–all three of us–and we’re finally nearing the end of this, the most dreadful cold I’ve had in ages. We’re all still clearing out, and we might be mistaken for a bunch of dogs or seals with all the coughing we’re doing, but we made it. Amidst all of that, Baby Genius had his five month birthday, and I owe him a letter, but I haven’t had my wits about me enough to compose because it seems that with this cold has gone my ability to think, write, and otherwise communicate. I’m telling you, it was brutal.
Because of the illness, my wife has continued to sleep on the sofa, and this is beginning to really suck. As with most times when we fall ill at the same time, J and I have found it difficult to stay even remotely connected. Add to this what is sure to be some wicked PMS for me, and the fact that we haven’t shared a bed in something like ten days, and you might see why we’ve not been doing so well the last few days. We had a semi-blissful week or two without fights, and here we are again at each others’ throats. It’s so disheartening, so exhausting. Last night, my wife informed me that she felt the romance in our relationship was dead. And despite my initial desire to contradict her, I know she’s right. While I’m guessing most couples don’t experience a whole lot of romance in their children’s first six months, it’s still really sad to hear those words out loud.
Ultimately, this is probably at the heart of so much of our pain these days. We are simply lacking romance.
My wife and I have never celebrated Valentine’s Day. We both hated the holiday before we got together, and we decided once we were together that we’d just rather not do the hearts and flowers thing. We have always been pretty good at that on a semi-regular basis, so singling out one day to declare our love for each other seemed, well, a little trite. This year, though, it seems it’s no mistake that we’re still suffering this crisis as Valentine’s Day approaches.
Last week in the midst of the sick, my sister called out of the blue to tell us she’d like to come visit for a night, watch our son, and send us out on a date. At the time, this seemed like the furthest thing from our reality, but it was a sweet gesture, and we knew we needed it—so we’re doing it. She’s coming Saturday, and my wife and I are going on a proper date, a grown-up one, at night, to a restaurant where we’d never take our son. I might even wear heels.
We are a little bit beside ourselves with the thought of going out to dinner. I mean, we’ve been out to lunch a couple of times without him, but this seems huge. We’ll be leaving him with her at bedtime. She’ll be putting him down. And us? We’ll be sipping some top shelf margaritas and eating Yucatan cuisine. Fortunately, she’s an old pro at this putting babies to bed business–she’s got an eighteen-month-old who will not be with her for the evening–so we feel pretty comfortable knowing she’ll take good care of him. I’m looking forward to it all. We need it.
My sister’s visit will also necessitate my wife’s return to our room, a return to goodnight snuggles and good morning kisses, and time to be us. As much as I hate to admit it, I think we need that little push. This going to bed without my wife business, while decidedly unpleasant, has become a little too routine.
I doubt my sister realizes just how important her visit is. I doubt she knows she’s playing cupid to this old married couple, but she is. She is.