Then the two of you decided to become three. And there were still the late nights. Nursing your baby though, not brewing a babelas. Shamefully early mornings replaced late ones. You still drank a lot. Of coffee, not pineapple schnapps. You still danced around. Not on the dance floor, but in your bedroom where the DJ was your screaming infant and your moves were motivated to relieve his trapped wind. You spent less time together and your conversations naturally began to centre around your child. Vegas was postponed. But you were content in your little trio, in a cocoon of togetherness.
More time passed. Three becomes four. And then perhaps five. You spend virtually no time alone together. Your children dominate most of your conversation, your thoughts, your life. Such is the reality of parenthood. And Vegas? Well Vegas is a beacon in the retirement plan. A cocoon is too small for all your togetherness. A tarp is a better fit. And you're happy under your chaos-filled tarp. Bewildered and exhausted most of the time. But happy.
There's no question that children change you. It's biology. The biggest change though is what happens to the 'us' that becomes 'we' after parenthood.
- Fading screen time. The last movie my husband and I saw in an actual cinema was Mamma Mia in 2008, just before our eldest was born. Clearly it was my choice. I was 9 months pregnant at the time. Everything was my choice then. Thou shalt not argue with a woman swollen with child and hormone-crazed beyond reason.
- The curse of the kiddies menu. The last time we dined at a real restaurant was my birthday. In 2013. Our most recent family meal out was at a McDonalds where no one batted an eyelid when my son smeared chips all over the wall, licked tomato sauce from someone else’s tray and lapped a puddle of juice off the table like a dog.
- The weekend hi-jack. Leisurely weekend lie-ins are replaced by early morning mad-dashes to sporting commitments and children’s birthday parties. Afternoons are spent explaining how to divide decimals, baking cupcakes or refereeing football friendlies in the garden.
- The slide of sanctuary status. Plastic toys and children’s bath paraphernalia have permanently replaced candles and posh smellies in the bathroom. There is simply no point in expensive bath products that our children pour down the drain or drink. Or both.
- Bye-Bye boutique, hello holiday park. Spontaneous getaways for two become family expeditions with a crammed roof-box and a car filled to rear-view-obscuring-capacity with all the essentials necessary for surviving sans home comforts.
- Rustic replaces refined. Home, once bijou and bespoke, is now sturdy and squat to accommodate the ravages of offspring and their ability to seek and destroy anything of value.
- Less artisan, more instant-from-a-can. The contents of our fridge that fleetingly flirted with gourmet now greets with pots of Peppa Pig yoghurt, cheese strings and carrot balls.
- Life in the middle-class lane. Once a spotless nifty little hatch-back, now an unwieldly tank with irretrievable bits of food stuck between the seats, Lego pieces strewn about and a sippy cup whose lid went MIA sometime in March.
- Little human heat between the sheets. Sleeping alone together in our bed is often interrupted by the arrival of a third person wedged between us, with a little foot or backside in the face or a surprisingly deft kick to the groin.
- Say what? Witty repartee is replaced by discussions of poo, pee and puke.
-The death of disposable income. The budget, once light and breezy, is now a complex multi-tabulated formula-riddled excel spreadsheet that details the expenses reflecting our children's education, health and social well-being.
And then when we're driving in the slow lane in our dusty 10-year-old tank after a frantic morning of dressing, feeding, sorting and packing, our cavernous boot stuffed with scooters, prams and bags, our backseat lined with our three children, I catch my husband's eye. And he winks. A mischievous little glint in his eye that I remember well. And that simple gesture takes me back 18 years. To our youth. To a very different time. To when it was just us.
I glance back at my toddler son who's fallen asleep, his fat cheek pressed up against the carseat, his limbs soft and smooth. I look at my eldest son who sits quietly holding his brother's little hand in his own. I see my daughter peering out of the window, her big blue eyes taking in every detail, her mind poised for a question that she's bound to ask. And I know that I wouldn't change our 'we' for anything. A trip to the cinema, a dinner for two, a long soak in the bath without a rubber duck up the bum and an indulgent lazy morning lie-in; these luxuries may be long overdue for us, but we'll get there. And to Vegas. You can bet on it.
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| Us before We. |
