Sexy Back

                Last Saturday my husband decided it was time for a date night. I looked forward to going out with him all day.  There are so few moments between a husband and wife with small children that aren’t interrupted by someone needing a drink, or a snack, or needing something wiped that I honestly felt giddy at the prospect of going out…after dark…to a place with no children’s menu.

                It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of the dating scene, but I do remember that getting ready for the evening was a significant part of this ritual.  Perfect hair, fresh make-up, cute outfit, perfectly accented accessories, coordinated bag, and oh-no-you-didn’t shoes.  I began strategically planning in my mind…I was going to do it…I was bringing  sexy back.  Unfortunately, what Mr. Timberlake seems to have left out of his painfully inappropriate lyrics is that bringing sexy back is a lot harder than it used to be…

                You see, what kept me from bringing sexy back was my lack of planning for the very thing that stole my sexy in the first place. In my earlier years, I never had to calculate the time (read life) that three small children suck out of you. I never planned for the witching hour.  (You know, that inevitable meltdown by one if not all of your children at the exact moment you’re burning whatever is on the stove.) Speaking of burning something on the stove, I never had to plan ahead to feed the kids before we left…and write down every number I can think of because if me or my husband or the restaurant or the three emergency contacts or 911 don’t answer, the babysitter can call my college roommate’s ex-boyfriend’s grandma to help in the case of an emergency.  I never had to attempt to get all three kids bathed and in pajamas.  And can one ever  really plan for the child who refuses to wear pajamas after spending an eternity looking for the Ninja Turtle footie pajamas he HAD to wear?  In case you were wondering…he was hot. Or what about the other one who is too busy smiling at herself in the mirror to hear you ask her to PLEASE go get her pajamas for the 852^nd time.  And the baby, do you hear him screaming because he must eat…NOW!  Because when your three months old and you weigh in at the 100^th percentile, milk is clearly a very precious commodity.  My former, sexier self would never have had to plan for all that.

                By the time I finished with the kids, I had about 30 minutes to get ready before the babysitter arrived.  Not a problem. After all, motherhood may have robbed me of a lot of things, but it also taught me the art of primping on a time limit.  My hair wasn’t styled as planned, but a ponytail can be sexy, right?  I knew Jarod would never notice if I just slapped another coat of make-up over the one I’d worn that morning…or maybe it was leftover from the day before, who can keep track?  My cute outfit ended up being jeans that fit somewhere on the spectrum of My Underwear Won’t Peek Out the Top and Full Blown Mom Jeans that somehow ended up with spit up on them. Sexy, right?  I even topped it all off with practical shoes that showed off my perfectly un-manicured toes.  I forgot earrings and I initially grabbed the diaper bag, but thought better of it and grabbed the first purse I could find buried in the back of my closet.

                As we were walking out the door, I felt a little defeated.  I knew when I planned to bring my sexy back that I wouldn’t be able to obtain an exact replica of my former dating glory, but I had hoped it would at least resemble it.  But here I was, looking just like an unsexy mom, the kind of unsexy mom I swore I would never be.  I felt like calling it all off and just asking if we could eat cookie dough in bed and pick out another Netflix movie.  My husband reached over, grabbed my hand, and said, “You look great tonight.  I’m so lucky to have such a sexy wife.” 

                It was in that moment that I realized that even though motherhood has left my body with less perk and a lot of sag, for my husband, my sexy never left.  While I’m sure he wouldn’t complain if my body miraculously appeared as it did when I was 19, my body isn’t what captivated him.  My husband is captivated by me, by my commitment to my relationship with God and our marriage, by my service to our family…and I’d like to think my puke-covered-semi-mom jeans helped too.  So even if I can’t be restored to my former self, maybe I got my sexy back after all…

 

 

Confessions of the Temporarily Insane

I could feel the intensity of my emotions rising.  My daughter hadn’t slept well in days, which in turn meant I hadn’t slept well in days. Lunch was already an hour and a half late, my husband was seemingly oblivious to the fact that the baby in his arms was crying, needed to be fed, and that I was now announcing for the third time that lunch was finally ready. 

Side note: I should warn you that my family suffers from food-sleep deprivation syndrome (FSDS).  In layman’s terms, this simply means that when one has been deprived of either food or sleep for an extended period of time, short-tempers, dirty looks, and a landslide of emotions will quickly follow.  Deprivation of both food and sleep could have lethal consequences.

      As I took the baby from him, he made a comment about not being able to hear over a crying baby and then he did it…every wife knows what I’m about to say…he smirked! (Ok, that wasn’t what you thought I was going to say and in hind sight the next part of my story may qualify as an overreaction.)I couldn’t believe it, here I was doing everything and he thought this was a joking matter!

 …Didn’t he know how tired and overworked I was?  Doesn’t he understand how demanding it is to be a nursing mother?  He probably expects me to make sure Ronan gets fed, too.  How can he not see all of these toys lying around?  I am so sick of being the only responsible adult around here!...

And then it happened.  I completely erupted.  I opened with how irritating he was, how he seemed to enjoy getting on my nerves and I didn’t stop there.  I decided to let him have it.  At this point I believe I had an out of body experience, presumably due to the bout of FSDS I was suffering from.  I continued to yell, while nursing.  (Amazing how a mother can learn to do anything while breastfeeding.)  I vaguely remember challenging him to pick a fight with me.  I think I may have actually used the term “throw down” at some point. 

      Who was this completely irrational person yelling at her husband?  It couldn’t actually be me.  I’m a peacekeeper.  I dislike confrontation.  I make it a point not to address every issue I have with my husband in an effort to keep the peace. We have our occasional quarrel, but this was on a whole new level.

      Thankfully my husband hadn’t lost his mind that day, too. He just looked at me as if I’d grown horns.  (Which, maybe I did.  At this point, I’m still not completely sure as to all of the details of my 10 minute tirade.)  He chose not to engage me, was pretty patient, and even offered to talk it out.  It wasn’t until several days later that I realized what had actually happened.

 I am doing a bible study with a group of ladies from church based on Lysa TerKeurst’s book, “Unglued”.  (I’m not even halfway through it and I can tell you that I would highly recommend it. It’s very good!)  It is a book geared toward dealing with confrontation and emotions in the moment.  In this particular chapter, Lysa was addressing the four types of reactors she believes most people fall into.  (Lucky for my family I fall into all four categories.)  She discusses the exploders who shame themselves, exploders who blame others, the stuffers who kind of wallow in their pain, and the stuffers who collect retaliation rocks.

A stuffer who collects retaliation rocks is the person who pretends nothing is bothering them, stuffing their emotions.  In the process of stuffing their emotions, they are collecting all of these thoughts/feelings that will later be used as ammunition (proof) against someone.

 In trying to keep the peace with my husband, I was collecting a lot of negative emotions and thoughts rather than dealing with them.  And based on my reaction, I had collected quite an arsenal to use against him.  Turns out all I needed was the right, lethal combination to ignite the reaction.

I am working to find a more appropriate and godly way to express myself, but boy does it get frustrating! I am not ashamed to admit that I like “instant”.  I would prefer perfect, instant change, but unfortunately, there is no magic formula, prayer, or amount of chocolate that can change me overnight.  There is grace, though.  The same grace my husband extended to me in my moment of temporary insanity, and the same grace that God gives me when I hurl my hurts on the people He and I both love so dearly. So, I will continue to take steps in the right direction, even if I don’t do it perfectly.   Most importantly, I will keep a stash of emergency snacks on hand so as not to aggravate my “condition”.