The first year we were together, B sent an impressive bunch of roses to me at work. In that moment, he managed to tick both the crucial Valentine boxes – he sent me flowers and he sent them where the maximum amount of people would witness me getting them. Brilliant. And amazing work for a novice considering I was his first serious girlfriend.
B has always been good with romance. In that same year, clearly our honeymoon phase, he sent me one long stemmed rose and a poem he had written. There were a few hiccups on this occasion. Namely, the fact that he sent the rose to the wrong address. And then, the next day, when I found the rose still sitting on the porch of the house a few doors up, reading the poem made me gag. Just a bit.
In this way, B is probably more romantic than I am.
Over the decade we have spent together, he has always made a big deal out of this day that we both agree is bogus but that we also both agree he would be stupid to ignore.
And to his absolute credit, I have received, never once, a rose-holding, stuffed bear in a plastic cylinder.
There have been lots of flowers and lots of dinners.
So B has the romance thing sewn up.
But lately, there have been spanners thrown in works. One word: spawn.
Today, I cooked my love a roast beef dinner. And made him some hedgehog. Because I know the way to my man’s heart.
He was late home.
I figured he had stopped on the way home to pick me up something last minute.
That’s okay. I didn’t get him bupkis.
When he walks in, I am doing the dishes, Zee is throwing hunks of beef to the floor and I can’t say with certainty what LD was up to but I’m willing to bet that his penis was in his hand. Because where else could it conceivably be?
The moment screamed romance.
By the time B had showered and we sat down to our meal, Zee was done eating, had thrown every scrap of food left onto the floor and was now screeching, literally screeching, to be let down from his highchair. LD was almost certainly still occupied with the aforementioned activity.
“Cheers, my love!”
We smiled at one another softly and then proceeded to swallow our meals with virtually zero chewing.
We tried a little chit chat over the screeching.
“Why did you put my towel on the trampoline?” B asked me.
And then, I was annoyed because in what universe would he find something on the trampoline that shouldn’t be on the trampoline and assume that it had been put there by anyone but Penis Boy?
I soothed myself with the thought of the beer cooling in the fridge.
B bathed the children while I finished the dishes and then we each took our respective child (mine – Zee, his – LD), dressed them for bed and then began the goodnight ritual.
“Say goodnight,” B told LD as he led him out of Zee’s bedroom where we had read a story together.
“I close the door!” LD insisted. B acquiesced and walked away to ready a cup of milk. LD pulled the door to but at the last moment, stuck his little face through the gap and whispered loudly, “You a butthead. You a butthead!”
I nursed Zee as I do every night. And just like every night, we fought over where one of his hands would rest. I think it belongs by his side and he believes it should be stuffed down my bra. Stuffing and removing ensues for the longest time until such time as the little person must give in to the weight of his eyelids.
B is still in with LD. They read and whatever. I don’t care. My designated kid is asleep.
I think B is hoping the night will get better. I am, too.
And if you think B and I are even remotely on the same page as to what constitutes a better night, you’re out of your tiny mind….