by
(Note: *Names have been changed to protect the innocent… and to save me the embarrassment of admitting their true identity.)
Tonight, instead of picking up the toys that littered the floor, instead of washing the breast pump parts that have piled up in my kitchen sink, and instead of folding laundry; I relaxed.
Not just a sit-on-the-couch–with-a-bowl-of-ice-cream-and-watch–TV-hile-folding-laundry kind of relax either.
No ma’am.
I did relaxation up right.
I filled our new jetted master bathtub, lit a few candles that have been collecting dust in our linen closet (why I feel the need to ‘save’ candles for special occasions that never exist is beyond me) and prepared to settle in for a relaxing fifteen minutes.
But then I thought “this would be so much more relaxing if I had some soft and slow music playing too.”
Hold on, relaxation. I’ll get there, I promise.
Rather than putting on the Savage Garden Pandora station, I wrapped myself in a towel and opted to peruse my old music collection for a CD. A CD that would be sure to contain forgotten boy band ballads that would inevitably strike me with nostalgia and a longing to be 15 again. I settled on a burned CD, titled with a Sharpie marker in a boy’s chicken-scratch handwriting and sank into the warm water as the stereo began to croon the voices of Babyface and KC and Jojo.
I smiled to myself as I hummed along and I thought back to the time when this particular boy gave me this CD. Back in the day, before iTunes and Pandora, giving a girl a burned CD titled “Think of Ross* CD” meant something. It meant you liked her. Like, like liked her.
I thought back to the weekend when he flew from California to Grand Rapids just to visit before being deployed to Afghanistan. I thought back to how he told me I was beautiful. How he told me that any guy would be lucky to have me. How he told me that he wanted to be that guy.
And I smiled.
For a brief moment, as I reminisced and forgot about the household/mommy/wife duties that awaited me on the other side of the door, I remembered what it was like to feel desired.
To feel wanted.
Not wanted because a sippy cup needed to be filled, or the bills needed to be paid, or the house to be cleaned. But wanted because you are an interesting, beautiful, charming, funny woman.
Desired by a boy who would smile at you from across the room just because he thinks you’re pretty; who would listen to you when you talk about your day without his eyes glazing over, who would leave you sweet love notes that didn’t start with, “we are all out of milk.”
And then I got to thinking about how so many marriages end in divorce or suffer through infidelities …and for a minute, I could understand it.
I could understand how it could happen.
I don’t condone it, but I could see how it could happen.
How a woman, insecure in her post-baby body, could be easily lured by a sweet-talking suitor. How a woman who follows the same routine day in and day out could be excited by the newness of an unfamiliar face. How a woman could easily fall for the sweet words from a stranger, words that she once heard from her husband’s mouth but have long since faded.
How a woman could so desperately want, need, wish, and hope to feel desired again; that she considers looking for it outside of her marriage.
In college, I remember walking through the mall with my girlfriends and being annoyed when a group of guys would wink, holler out, or stare at our chests as we walked by. I remember driving to school with my best friend and rolling our eyes when male drivers would honk their horns at us. I remember offering a coy smile to a cute boy at the bar when he offered to buy me a drink.
But those days are long gone.
I’d like to say that my lack of desirability is because I project a mature and self-confident I-am-married-with-kids-so-don’t-even-waste-your-timeaura, but sadly I don’t think that is it. No man is going to smile or wink at me across the grocery store aisle when I have three kids under the age of four hanging onto my cart (unless those are his kids too and he is equally exhausted and covered in spit-up. Then I might stand a chance).
Something tells me that the mini-van, flabby stomach, nursing bra, food stuck in my hair, I-talk-about-my-kids-so-much-sometimes-forget-where-they-stop-and-I-start aura that I radiate, is the real reason why I do not get hit on like I used to. Because let’s face it, when only 1/3 of your entourage is potty-trained, you might as well hose yourself down with man repellant.
And when I slowly open my eyes as the last song comes to an end, I am brought back to reality. A reality in which I remember that although I do not have scores of suitors; I have a husband that loves me. That although my husband may not always give me his undivided attention, look lovingly at me from across the room, or tell me how lucky he is to have me; he is mine and only mine. And then I have a thought that maybe, just maybe, hemisses feeling wanted too.
I am reminded that he is not perfect, but neither am I.
And lastly I remember Ross* and how I knew, even at that moment, that I didn’t love him and that I never would. But I remember how it still felt wonderful to be told “You’re so special. Any guy would be lucky to have you”
But then I remember how he told my best friend the exact same thing. That exact same weekend. When we were all camped out on the floor in the EXACT same room.
Guess he desired her too.
This couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m about to cash in what feels like my last “I’m still a woman not just a mom” chip and get a minivan. Baby Three is on her way, and I have to let go of my last refuge…my car. When my kids aren’t with me, I can easily be just a random chick driving an SUV with the music up and sunglasses on. But in a minivan, kids in tow or not, you’re still a mom. And “mom” may as well be synonymous with “frumpy, unattractive old lady in capri pants and a ponytail.” Nowhere in my mind do words like “sexy, hot chick” even come close. It sounds totally shallow, I get that. I’m not proud of it. But having some random dude notice you is a huge confidence booster. It makes you feel like you’re worth something more than making nuggets and pouring juice. Like you, I’ve noticed the major reduction in male attention, and I too like to blame it on my kids, lol. There’s just nothing worse than feeling like a shell of the hottie you once were, and the unsettling feeling that it’s never coming back. And yes, it’s great to have a husband who loves you but I agree with your statement about being wanted just BECAUSE. I get the affairs and divorce too. It’s funny how it makes sense now that we’re grown up and struggling with identity and self-worth.
Great post, you nailed it.