365 Nights (9 page)

Wow. How does one formulate a cogent response to that, I ask? Deep down inside, I knew Brad was right—that while Baby No. 3 may have been right for me, it wasn't right for us. I would still float the perpetual “let's have another kid” platform and I still get pangs of regret and harbor hope that he might get some wild hair and change his mind. Which is ridiculous—wild hair and Brad go together about as well as Charla and small, yippy dogs, which is not at all.

So in some way, I was able to recognize that this somewhat new arrangement of daily intimacy was a nod to the fact that Brad missed me. That while it was too premature in the cycle of raising children to bring back the carefree, spontaneous woman I once was in her entirety, there were bits and pieces of her I could attempt to resurrect. I was coming out from the valley of early motherhood to a time when, as my children are now of school age, do not cling on to me every second. Gaining a portion of me back included having an active and fulfilling sex life . . . and no new babies. Was I sad? Sure, I still am sometimes, especially when I see a sweet, cuddly newborn. And most surely when I reflect on all the baby names I didn't get to use. But I couldn't compromise my relationship with Brad by coercing him into something that he didn't want. Besides, when this dream baby woke up screaming at 4 A.M. and Brad rolled over with a look that said, “This was Your idea: You get up!”—well, that was a situation I hoped mightily to avoid.

Folks can argue about who is best suited to lose this debate— the person who wants the baby or the person who doesn't. And while we each passionately defended our position, in reality, Brad was a tad more passionate about
not
having a third child than I was about having a third. We had two wonderful kids, and not having a third was not going to render me or our family incomplete. And in reality, I didn't want a third badly enough to take it all on myself. I wasn't one of those wives willing to shoulder any and all baby duties for the next eighteen years. I'm not a masochist for goodness' sake. So I did defer on this one, which, all told, was pretty amazing for Big Idea Girl.

On occasion, I still lay my head on Brad's shoulder and murmur about how sweet a third would have been, how old he or she would be now if we had gone ahead and done it. How wonderful our older children would be with the third. But it's all just that . . . sweet nothings about something that will never happen. Because if our baby-making days weren't officially behind us, I couldn't appreciate all the gifts that this next phase will bring, namely a growing back together of sorts. That, and of raising kids who can finally bathe, feed, and dress themselves, for example. In a nutshell, kids who can do that miracle of modern humans: multitask!

Brad finally had had enough. “I'm sorry, but are we really talking about this stuff
now
? It's not very sexy.”

I didn't start out as an intimacy multitasker, but necessity demanded that I try it. And after many years of juggling the world of Mullers, I became quite good at it. However, I soon learned that our daily trysts couldn't handle multitasking, nor did it need it.

In my husband's view, sex is serious business and one should stay focused on the task at hand. And in the old days, I would have agreed wholeheartedly. You could have bet your birthday money that I would never, ever get chatty on my husband. We both treated the anomaly of intimacy with great reverence.

But I feel this great need to talk to him during the deed. Perhaps it's my wiring—this was, after all, a time to bond with him and we all know how women bond: talk, talk, talk. Also, while you can't physically multitask during sex (at least I can't clean the tile in the bathroom and get it on with my husband), you can mentally multitask. Guys brush their teeth and pee at the same time, so why, I reasoned, can't I have sex and talk about whether Janine is really a competent babysitter or if we need to branch out?

Well, because it's distracting, and concentration is involved, at least on a man's part. Me? Well, remember that I was trying to multitask . . . so I'm not exerting too much mental energy on my end. You can't blame a girl for trying. After all, school is in full swing now, and I've got a little alone time with my husband, and I want to make the most of it. What I failed to realize is that in some ways I was connecting with my husband on his “turf,” not mine. Granted, intimacy was a common experience to us both, but the connection that we experienced was, for him, far superior to any other form of communication—my blabbing on and on about something, his BlackBerry, the newspaper, or even television. I needed to simply shut my mouth and let him enjoy this intimate communiqué. He didn't feel the need to chitchat and neither should I. Sometimes intimacy with your spouse requires no embellishments.

With our everyday model came some guy stuff that I had not considered, since I'm not a guy and all. For example, my husband can always rise to the occasion, but he does not always close the deal (apologies for the bad metaphors, but they do the job). There were days when he had to call it a day. Normally, my husband (and most men living on this planet) would be appalled and embarrassed by the idea that they couldn't deliver the goods. Certainly it's an important, if not tangible, commentary on one's sexual prowess. But when you're living in a new sex paradigm, things indeed shift. My husband was having sex every day, with no strings attached, mind you. So apparently if there was an occasional glitch, it was no biggie.

“Uh, sorry, but I think this is it,” he said one night.

“What? You're not going to finish?” I was incredulous . . . and alarmed.

“Hon, we've been doing this for nearly eighty-eight straight days . . . I don't have it in me. There is nothing left, and I mean that literally.”

I wanted to be an appropriately sympathetic wife, and I was sure that this would be a blow to his manhood. “Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. It's okay . . . really . . . are you okay?”

“Of course, I'm fine. I think I'll just watch some
Sports Center
if that's okay with you.”

“Wow, I must say that you're really handling this well,” I finally offered.

He smiled serenely, rolled over, and countered, “Well, there's always tomorrow.”

And that was a little gift of The Gift. Brad knew he was going to have sex every day no matter what, so it took the pressure off having sex perfectly every time. He still wanted intimacy, mind you, and still enjoyed it. But if he couldn't close the deal, it wasn't like some missed opportunity that wouldn't roll around again until another lunar eclipse. No, we both had a nice connection, participated in a warm and intimate moment, and to quote Scarlet O'Hara, “Tomorrow is another day.”

Every new day brought various challenges to our schedule, and so we hustled and negotiated and got in a routine with our kids, too. We started distracting them so we could go distract ourselves.

We insisted on strict bedtimes. As a kindergarten teacher so sagely told me, “If your six-year-old knows the plot of
Desperate Housewives
, he is not getting enough sleep.” Babies, toddlers, and middle-schoolers all need adequate sleep—even in the summer and on weekends. Honestly, having sex at midnight when I'm bone tired after a day of work, carpooling, changing diapers, and cooking dinner is
not
my idea of a good time. But a romp in the hay between 7 and 10 P.M. is really quite preferred and also energizing.

We didn't allow co-sleeping. And we weren't afraid to close our bedroom door and lock it. And I reminded myself that kids are never too young to learn the meaning of a closed door, and to exercise the discipline not to open it. I know finding fifteen uninterrupted minutes in the course of the day is virtually impossible, but a locked door will at least buy you a few.

And we found ourselves an amazing babysitter, whom the children run to in excitement upon her arrival, which zaps the guilt right out of going out for date nights. I know a woman who did not leave her first child alone with anybody for an entire year. She never once went out with her husband for dinner, or a movie, or even a cup of coffee. Okay, I'm not trying to be critical, but she's not really going to win any awards with that one, especially “Wife of the Year.” But that's beside the point. Because first of all, who is to say that I was up for Wife of the Year? Although I think my effort should count for something—don't you?

As much as I hate to admit it, television and videos can be your friends, and we became especially tight with Señor TV and Madame Video during this year of The Gift. We weren't afraid to park a kid or two in front of a video for a while because, in the end, everyone would walk away happier. And honestly, we're better parents when we have some time together alone.

As I became a more experienced mother, I knew when to ask for help when I needed it. After my first cesarean, I cried with joy when I left the hospital. “Let my wonderful life as Mother to the World's Most Perfect Baby begin!” I proclaimed to the world as I stepped (or rather was wheeled) into the bright light of a July day. After my second cesarean, I cried with sadness when they finally kicked me out of the lovely room on maternity row where nice-enough nurses brought me my baby every three hours and asked me if I'd had a BM yet (the answer was no, of course). But this time, I left armed. I grabbed all the giant maxipads, several pairs of the giant, weirdly stretchy disposable underwear, a cotton baby blanket (they were so soft!), and a handful of stool softeners. Yes, this time I was prepared, right down to The Conspiracy.

The Conspiracy was not my idea. It was that of my girlfriends. In fact, I had no idea it existed until they spilled the beans. “So, don't forget, get the doc to write you a note regarding sex,” one said as she reviewed with me her checklist. “What kind of note?” I asked, truly and deeply ignorant. “Well, you're not supposed to have sex for a while after the baby is born, and I always ask my ob-gyn to write a note to tack on a few weeks for good measure.”

“Tell me more,” I begged another friend in on The Conspiracy.

“Well,” this one continued, “if a baby has ripped you from sunup to sundown, and it's unlikely you'll have a pain-free bowel movement until the next full moon, you might need a few extra weeks of R&R. Just don't let on to your husband when things are getting back to normal. It's important that you act as disappointed as he about this ‘restriction.' ” Ah, let the games begin. And so began my career of dodging sex with my nice husband.

Fast forward, and here we are, trying to weave intimacy back into the grind of everyday family life. Although it pains me to think of it, I can't help but compare our new arrangement to a story involving my grandmother. She had only one travel dream—a trip to the Holy Land. This was to be her only trip abroad, and possibly her only trip outside the Southeast. When she arrived home from the Holy Land, she made a big to-do about each of us grandchildren sitting by her on the couch to look through all 1,437 photos made with her Kodak Brownie.

“And this is me on a camel! Can you beleeeve it?” she squealed
.

She flipped ahead to the picture of her standing in the River Jordon. I held the album close and peered intently to get a good look. Having come from a long line of God-fearing Baptists, we are familiar with total-immersion baptism. My mother was baptized in a river when she was young and I was baptized (in our church's baptismal pool) when I was twelve.

Well, she was right, I have seen nothing like my grandmother standing in the River Jordan in the deeply spiritual ritual of baptismal immersion wearing a giant, plastic flowery shower cap from the CVS.

And right she was. Even in the most special moments, there is a thread of practicality. And in some ways, you can enjoy those spiritual moments more if you're prepared. Just like my grandmother did. This has never been truer than when it comes to dealing with real life, real schedules, and real intimacy. Grabbing a special moment in the chaos of every day with Brad takes some preparation. And no, we don't do it wearing flowery shower caps.

So the homework is done, the kids are asleep, and we've used up our water quota for the month. But the truth is that this space, this home, is just as meaningful to me as the River Jordan is to my grandmother. This is where it all happens. As sociable as I am, it's the journeys that Brad and I have taken and will continue to take as a couple and as parents—warming up bottles, cheering our babies' first steps, teaching them how to read—that are the greatest road we'll ever take. Maybe we did miss out on a longer newlywed period because of the swift arrivals of our children, but this is where we are. I see Brad noodling on the computer. I put my hand on his shoulder, and give him a tap.