On most nights, we wear sexy, expensive lingerie and have the candles burning, romantic music playing in the background, satin sheets and flattering lighting. And he serves me chocolates in bed before giving me a massage, leading into hot lovemaking that goes on all night long.
That’s love, right?
Despite what Disney convinced me in my youth, I’ve learned that love is a whole lot messier, MUCH more disturbing. Here is a picture of me and the spouse in the marriage bed. I just cleaned my dirty feet with a diaper wipe, and I’m surfing porn in bed (for research purposes only — I’m looking for an apt metaphor for what our president is doing to the country). The husband surfs the sports news, reading up on next year’s NFL draft.
In 6.5 hours, our older child will jump on me and grab my ears in a comfort gesture, while the younger will pull my hair until I promise her a cup of orange juice. Her diaper will leak on the cotton sheets after.
No one ever told me love would be this grand!
