Let me set the scene. It’s a weeknight. It’s just before 9pm. The married couple are tired, but, it’s been a while since they had some decent “mom and dad” time so, they inform their children that they are going to bed early. They are really tired and please don’t disturb them. What a glorious recipe for calamity.
Earlier this week, Shawn and I decided to take a night to ourselves. We rarely get to bed much less to sleep at the same time and, with our schedules, making time for play doesn’t happen with the frequency we would like it to. Occasionally it’s so bad that we simply have to make time for one another, or the valves that need releasing will burst open and, sadly, someone will die. (I *may* be a little melodramatic, but you get the point – you HAVE to release the steam valves or murders will happen)
Anyway, we decided to take an evening for us. We went up to our room, closed our door and locked it. We actually began our evening with talking. Because god knows that’s a very important part of intimacy and another thing we don’t always make enough time for. There we were, snuggled up together, warm in bed, talking, and the first door knock comes. It’s one of the kids with a concern. She has zombie prom for band at the school IN TWO DAYS and she needs a prom-like dress that she can tear up and cover in fake blood. Do I have one?
DO I HAVE ONE?
Sigh. I throw on my robe and explain that there is a green 80’s style prom-like dress in a bin in the spare room from Halloween’s past. She can have that.
Hubs and I look at one another. Of course she gave us two days notice. Actually, she most likely gave us more notice than that, but, as I said, we’ve been busy. We kiss. It’s nice. Really nice. We’re just getting comfortable again and the door knock happens.
The dress doesn’t fit. It’s too big.
On goes the robe, the door gets unlocked and we come out. We spend a few minutes with her and yes, the dress is too big, it slumps down her front, NOT what you want for your 15 year old. Dad agrees to take her to the thrift store the next night to find her something. We send her away and go back to our room. This time we get a full half hour before the next interruption. Of course timing is just perfect. To be honest, I don’t even remember which kid asked what. I only know that my husband handled this one. And let me just say that derailments do NOT go over well in our house. Once the train is derailed, you have to circle all the way back the station and re-board.
A knock at our door.
We both yell WHAT??? at the door.
It’s our son this time, the 14 year old. He says he forgot that he has to interview us. For school. For tomorrow.
It’s ten o’clock! We exclaim to him. A sheepish sounding sorry comes through the door. Which we then open, again.
He climbs up onto the bed with us with his note paper. Oblivious. (thank goodness)
The questions are all about how things have changed in the workplace since we were young. We talk about minimum wage and cell phones and internet and such. It’s a lovely little conversation. He leaves and we shut and lock our door again and I SWEAR TO GOD fifteen minutes later there is a knock.
Our daughter says she has a hangnail and needs my cuticle clippers. Hubs yells at her that we don’t have any. She calls us liars and leaves.
Shawn and I looked at one another and laughed. F’n cuticle clippers. Well damn.
And that, my friends, is why small children are NOT the greatest hamper to your love life. Teenagers are.
Then the train finally made it’s journey through the mountains and all the villagers could rest at peace knowing there would be no murders.
(This has been a mostly true story: no actual villagers were at risk for murder)