The love songs before the lullabies

It’s a beautiful day outside.  Well, at least, through the window.  The sun is shining, casting shadows of the bare trees on my neighbors homes across the street.   Dry leaves add texture and color to the barren grass.  The Winter sky is even blue. If not for the small hint of snow covering part of our walkway and the dreadful temperature if I dared to open the door, I might think it was Spring.

The little one is tucked in for her afternoon nap and the big one is downstairs, happily lapping up Daddy’s attention without interference from the little sister.   And so I find myself alone.  Wow!

I’d been listening to some wonderfully romantic songs as I made lunch and attempted to make headway on the trail of toys that would surely have to be, at the very least, parted like the Red Sea, to get through to the crib.   I could easily sit here and replay those same songs over and over again.  But that seems a little indulgent, when I’ve told myself again and again that I must write.

But oh to dream of romance, the kind that only songs are made up of.   The kind I only wish my husband would think of.   Well, that’s not entirely true.  He’s been very romantic over the years.  But somehow the recent years and the change from one child to two, and the doubly fast rate at which our energy is spent and our patience exhausted, leaves little room to think of anything but survival.  I could tell myself it’s the, ahem, few, extra pounds I’ve put on, or the fact that oh, I don’t know, I’ve had poisonous radiation in my Cancer-fighting body from time to time, but let’s face it, he’s a man, and those things really don’t matter as much as I blame them.  It’s the kids. Pure and simple. 

Let’s face it, when two people are in love, we’re kind of like the postman - come rain, come shine, come snow, sleet or hail, we’ll always deliver the “mail”, but somehow, when you’re carrying children, rather than love letters, the burden seems so much heavier.

Oh, it’s not their fault.   And we love the little buggers.  But it sure would be nice to remember what it was like to think of something other than them.   Somewhere, in the far recesses of my brain, I remember the stars in my eyes.  Heck, I even remember stars on the ceiling one time, but that’s a romantic story for another time....  But now all I think about are the bags under my eyes and the stress in his.

I’d like to think we’ll get back there someday, to those stars, but since we’re “older” parents, it’s a bit scary to think how much we might have to squint to see those stars by then.

Then there are days when I wonder if the battle scars of not only motherhood, but fatherhood as well, will be too many, too much to overcome.   You always hear how you have to work at a marriage, and you think you are strong enough to do it.   And sure, you think you know how much children are going to take out of you, how they will become your primary focus, but there are ways in which they affect your marriage that you never think about going in.  

For when you have children, you start to see each other differently.   At first, it’s with those same stars in your eyes, only brighter.  The stars that caress that tiny baby in their arms and say, wow, look what we made.  Look how beautiful this is.  But then there are the comets, the flames that come shooting in and leaving a trail of dust you didn’t count on.   Because when you become a mother, your allegiance shifts to those children.  It’s not a conscious choice; it just happens.    And even if you love your husband with a ferocity that is unmatched by your peers, you will still cough a bit on that comet’s dust, and sometimes, you’ll even find yourself choking.

It’s that argument that you know your little one overheard, the manner of discipline that you wouldn’t have chosen, the habits you wish he’d abandon already, the lack of tenderness in his voice or nurturing in his manner.  It’s your reaction to him - the sullenness, the defensiveness, the protectiveness, the tearful withdrawal. 

And you lie awake at night wondering what effect these events will have on your children.  What kind of people will they become?  Will they grow into people who can love and be loved? Will they be responsible with that love?  Will they be committed and faithful - even when their own children come?

And yet you turn on the romantic songs from time to time and you look toward your husband and you remember.  His eyes on your wedding night.  His sneaky smile as he planned your romantic surprise.  His arms around you as you danced.   And you long for yesterday.   Before you were divided, yet forever bonded together by these children.

Somewhere deep in your heart you know that you will have to let your children go, let them fly and discover love and all that it entails, for themselves, and you will have to forgive, maybe a lot, of your spouse.

Sometimes the pain is great, sometimes it seems there is no way back.  But then you turn on the romantic songs, the ones of your youth, the ones that you grew with through the decades, and you hope.  And who knows, maybe the love you find won’t be the same one you left behind, but maybe it will be like this sunshine on the barren trees today - some new and different kind of Spring.  Maybe it won’t quite be perfect just yet, but it will hold the promise of warmth, of color, of discoveries to be made, and maybe, just maybe, it will be the best season ever.