Wife Rule #19: There's Never Enough Together Time

My wife and I love spending time with each other. It's a fault we have always shared. Our social lives have suffered some over the years, because although we like our friends a lot, we both just prefer being together more. We love spending time with our kids too, but as any parent of four children ages eight and under knows, family time is distinctly different from couple time. And we just can't get enough of our couple time, our Together Time.

Sometimes we push our luck with Together Time, such as on Saturday mornings. For about five years, I had to awaken at about 5:30 AM for various Sunday morning meetings, so Saturdays were our only sleeping-in safe havens. To my wife and I, sleeping in until 8:00 AM is outrageously lavish. But on certain Saturday mornings, we stayed in bed longer, just being together, until 8:30 or later. It could be heavenly.

This parental bliss seldom goes unnoticed by our four children, who typically alternate between two very important Saturday-morning activities: brawling, and tattling about the brawling. Thus, our peaceful mornings are interrupted at regular three-minute intervals with loud raps on the bedroom door.

"Mom!" (It's always for Mom; I don't know why, but there are certain advantages for me.)

"Wha-at?" my wife replies with a sing-song pleasantness.

"Mom!" the voice repeats, obviously more interested in being heard than listening for a response.

"Whaaaat?" we both respond, sounding purposefully annoyed.

"Mommm!" Apparently our emoting fell on deaf ears.

"Whaaaat?" we both call out with obvious exasperation, at the top of our voices, as to let the disturber know that this had better be serious.

Unfortunately, it always is serious. Rachel lays out her well-rehearsed case: "Scott ran into me with his dump truck and then he hit me really hard, on purpose! And it hurts really bad!"

"Sorry Rachel. Go tell Scott to be nice," comes our automated response to this predictable scenario.

"Um, okay," she says brightly, and off she skips down the hall to let Scott have it.

By this time, of course, we are both well awake, but we have dug in our heels, determined not to emerge into the chaos outside our bedroom door just yet. My wife rolls over and lays her head on my shoulder, and looks at me with those eyes that just won't quit. Three minutes later, we hear more loud raps on our door.

"Whaaaaat?"

"Mom, um Mom?"

"Whaaaaat?"

"Um, Mom, Rachel hit me really hard and it hurts really bad," comes Scott's usual report.

"Go tell Rachel to be nice." Off Scott zooms down the hall at Turbo Tyrannosaurus speed.

By now all drowsiness has fled, which is just as well. My wife is looking pretty fine in her faded high school dance camp tee shirt and sweat bottoms. And I know that my hairdo, fresh from being smashed into my pillow all night, is tufted up above my ears, giving me a regal horned-owl sort of look--absolutely irresistible to my woman. But alas, three minutes later comes the loudest rapping yet.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaat?" my wife calls out, all hints of niceness gone from her voice.

"Mommy, time to come out!" calls the authoritative voice of two-year-old Andrew. We look at each other. We know this is the end. Andrew's not tattling on anyone; we know exactly what he wants, and he's amazingly persistent for someone who's only two feet tall. Our "peaceful" morning is over.

So we begrudgingly roll out of bed to greet the day and our four children, who we really do love with all our hearts. But we'll both readily admit that we're glad they sleep ten to twelve hours a day--we'll enjoy it while it lasts. For now, it gives us a little Together Time every day, to use up sleeping in, or talking, or playing a game, or watching an occasional movie, or sometimes just working together, side by side. We just can't get enough of each other.