^_^  Saruskabeth ^_^

A wise pastor once said in a sermon, “People ask me why their marriages have lost that spark, and my answer is always the same. You can’t run on one tank of gas all your life. You have to stop, sometimes, and refill the tank!”

My husband and I have felt that bump here and there. That lurch that reminds you to check the guage. We haven’t always done a good job of making sure it doesn’t reach the big red “E,” but we haven’t let it die, either! Since the birth of our (beautiful!) daughter almost five months ago, we have experienced a slow decline on our meter. So gradual, in fact, that we almost didn’t notice it, and when we did we both tried to cruise “just another mile!”

Every Saturday night for the last few months, my husband and I have had a date night.  I pump enough for a few hours and get purtied up, slip on (or pull, prod, and squeeze on) a dress; he comes home from work and tosses on a polo. A sitter comes over, and we kiss the little ones goodbye. We go to one of two restaurants, order the same meals as last week, and we eat, periodically making an observation. “This is good. Meat’s kind of tough.” “That kid is about the same age as Dylan.” “We are really boring people.”

Neither of us were having a good time, but neither one of us wanted to be the ones to point it out. We both felt guilty. After all, we are supposed to enjoy each other’s company. We’re supposed to be the light in the other’s life, live for each other’s smile, strive to make each other laugh. Instead, we wonder if we left the light on in the bedroom. We live for naptime, and we strive to make it through parenthood without losing our minds. Its not that we don’t love each other, or even that we’re bored with our relationship. We’re both just so dang tired!

So a few weeks ago, after three baby bowel blunders, a mealtime meltdown, battle over bathtime, and a chore list long enough to wall paper the Great Wall of China, I couldn’t do it. The thought of exerting ANY effort was enough to make me pass out on the spot. So I recruited his mom, dropped the kids off at her house, and called him at work. “You can go out tonight, if you want, but I’m going to stay home. Go to BW’s and hang with they guys, or something. I’m probably just going to go to bed.”

To my surprise, he admitted that hewasn’t too keen on going out, either. So we didn’t. We ordered Chinese delivery, and I jumped in the shower while we waited. I got out and put on my PJs, wet hair, no makeup, no perfume. We popped in Batman, and fell asleep on the couch. I’d never seen the movie, and can only assume the good guys won, that Bruce Wayne got the girl. I know Tristen Bruce did.

Since that night, there has been a difference in the way we look at each other. I remember, now, why I married this man. It wasn’t so I can try to impress him with glitz and glam, or so he can make me laugh with his clever jokes. I married him because I can send him to work with a grumpy, “goodbye” and hair that hasn’t seen a hairbrush since last Thursday and he will say he loves me. I married him because I can wear my PJ’s all day, not put on a stitch of make up, forget to brush my teeth, and he’ll still kiss me goodnight. I married him because I can have his three babies who gave me stretch marks, saggy boobs, and mom hips and he still calls me “sexy.”

We thought we were running low on gas. We tried everything we knew to fill the tank. But that night, on our inside-out date, we discovered that the tank was full. We had just forgotten to recharge our batteries.

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