**Today Amber and I are writing short letters to each other. Check hers out here. Amber,
When we were younger, “sexy” meant a bottle of wine and Ben Harper on the stereo. A coffee shop date. Walking arm-in-arm in the snow. Sexy was pent-up, explosive. Sexy looked for any private place to steal a kiss.
They told us that children would change everything and they were right. Sexy became a bottle of wine and a bad movie after our two children went to bed, something suitable for mind-numbing like My Super Ex-Girlfriend.
With four children, sexy is an empty teapot and surviving the witching hour. Sexy happens while we ward off the sleep-walkers and the mid-night thirsters. It is more fleeting, maybe even more pent-up. Sexy is tired…
It’s a phase. That’s what they promise.
Do you remember when my parents kept our kids two summers ago? Remember the quiet dinner on the patio? Afterwards, we went to Jared and Lindi’s and listened to the Boss on vinyl—Nebraska, that grand, sultry album. After we drove home, we pulled the mattress into the living floor and listened to old 90’s rock. It was quiet in the house, no pounding of little boy feet, no war cries from Narnia.
That night was foreshadowing.
As phases go, another is coming. In ten to fifteen years, we’ll watch our children transition. The quiet house will return more permanently and maybe we’ll spend long nights on the couch listening to Ben Harper and the Boss. We’ll fumble through being alone again; I bet you’ll giggle a lot. And maybe we’ll look back on the tedium of raising children with fondness; we’ll think that these were some of the best years of our marriage.
“Remember when we had to sneak sexy into our day,” you’ll say. “Remember when I wore spaghetti stained sweatshirts and threw you winks over the tops of milk-craving boys.” “Yes,” I’ll say. Then you’ll put on your best Alabama smirk and say, “Now THAT was sexy!”
I still like you,
**Have you written to your spouse in a while? There's no time like the present.