It's Valentine's Day; Let There Be Coffee And Sleep And Sexless Back Rubs

Just kidding, you're asleep. That was a dream.

You wake up to birds chirping, just kidding, you don’t, because it’s February and it’s freezing, and also you have a kid. 

But you wake to those figurative birds and roll over to check the time. 8:30 am. Oh lordy. How lovely to sleep in! But the kid! The husband! You rush to the hallway, tendrils of aromatic coffee tickle your nose. You hear giggles from your toddler; your spouse, sweet-decadent-maker-of-coffee is entertaining her. 

“Good morning, mommy,” he says, encouraging your daughter to say the same. “Go ahead and shower,” he says. Teeny tiny fingers waggle from the tot. So you do. You shower. And you shave your legs. And you have a seat, letting the shower rain over you, coursing over your exhausted body that’s still reeling from labor and birth two years ago.

You stay there for an hour.

Your fingers and toes turn into raisins, and you haven’t heard a peep from downstairs. 

When you get out, your legs are jasmine scented smooth canvases with which to paint with yoga pants that are straight from the laundry because your husband did that too. 

Downstairs, on a tray, you are served a dippy egg on toast. Coffee with no less than one cup of sugar? Oh, your husband knows you so well!

“We’re going to the park,” your husband says. Your daughter kisses and hugs and nose kisses you. She’s the cutest, you know, and you adore the creature. Your husband gathers her up, rolls her into her puffy coat, and out the door into the sunshiny cold, they go. 

What do you do!? Your choices are infinite! Read? Write? Watch some dreck TV show?

In the meantime, you eat your perfectly prepared egg, sip your coffee in the beautiful silence.

Two hours later, they reappear. She is comatose in his arms. He goes to lay her in her bed. Sound machine on, curtains closed. He comes downstairs. You decide to watch TV together. That show, whatever show, it doesn’t matter which show. 

She naps for three hours, something you’ve heard of, but never knew existed. She does not wake up screaming. Instead, she pads out of her bedroom, calls your name sweetly, and you nuzzle together on the couch under a blanket made of the softest chenille, and you don’t even care how many baby chenilles had to die for that blanket to keep you warm.

Your husband refreshes your coffee. Begins dinner. Finishes dinner. Feeds you. Your daughter happily eats what is on her plate. He gives her a bath and sets her on her bed, warm, clean, soft. She makes no sound as she descends back into her dreams. 

Your husband returns to wash the dishes, scraping everything off the plates before he puts them in the dishwasher. He cleans the counters. Packages up the leftovers. Vacuums. Cleans the toilets. 

You shower together. There is no sex, only back rubs.

You read in bed together, separately. Your daughter will sleep through the night.

You are in love.

Just kidding, you're asleep. That was a dream.

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