Before We Had Children

I just got into the strangest argument of my life. It started when my husband and I were doing dishes and I was trying to talk to him. He kept interrupting the conversation by throwing commands over my head at our children. “Get me your plate! I’m not going to ask again.” “Do you want to sweep? Because you’re going to be sweeping this entire kitchen if you push one more piece of rice onto the floor.” I’m not sure when my husband grew eyes in the back of his head, but it’s kind of creepy and kind of a turn-on at the same time. Anyway, I finally got frustrated and threw my soapy hands in the air. “I’m trying to talk to you!” I screamed at him. “Why can’t we have a conversation like we did before we had kids?”


He cocked a smile at me and replied, “Really? We’re going to start talking about all the things we did before we had children?” He was right. Wishing for those days back is a lost cause—if I could even remember what they were like in the first place. I honestly can’t remember watching a movie without singing woodland creatures or Panda’s that do Kung Fu, or watching a movie without having to make four trips with kids to the bathroom or the popcorn refill stand. Sure, we’ve gone on “date nights” to more adult fare, but we’re always so tired that we wind up spending half the movie dozing in our reclining seats. Barrel-sized caffeine infused drinks don’t help when you’re an exhausted parent, neither does Dolby surround sound—I could sleep while a train bulldozed my house.

We spend our weekends repairing things our children have broken or cleaning things they’ve dirtied. Meals are frustrating and unsatisfying when your children behave like ants who’ve caught wind of a picnic basket (see yesterday’s post.) Even when we go to a restaurant “just the two of us” we can’t help but inhale our meal without tickling a single taste-bud—it’s force of habit from sucking down dinner so that we’re not late to the band concert or the football game.

It’s no wonder empty nesters have trouble adjusting—they can’t even remember what they did with their time prior to having children. Maybe that’s why they buy big motorhomes and drive around the country aimlessly—they’re searching for what brought them together in the first place. They have about as good of a chance of finding it as I do of starting the bath and getting in before it gets hijacked by my daughter. Children just change you.

Tonight I’m watching a movie with my daughter tucked under my arm like she’s afraid I’m going to drop her off a cliff. She’s so close I can hear her breathe. And she’s laughing. It’s the most delightful, joyful sound in the world. I look at her tiny little hand clutched to my knee and I realize that I’m okay with the change. What would I do with a quiet moment anyway? Probably fall asleep.