But to keep it I had to use it to stand up for myself, to create boundaries between Matt and me, and, painfully at first, my children and me. "I can't go grocery shopping today," I'd say to Matt, and, if he fussed, I refused to let it get to me: he could go just as well as I could. And for our children I mandated outdoor time. Strict bedtimes. Places I could come up for air. My days began to take shape in a way they hadn't before.
Soon, I began liking myself more. My energy came back. I played chess with our 6-year-old, poisonous killer cheetahs with our 4-year-old, and, when I needed a break, sprawled out on the couch while our 2-year-old lovingly brushed my hair. For the most part my resentments towards Matt ceased because I knew I had a choice: I could acquiesce, or push back. Before I was too afraid to take a stand: afraid of not being a good wife, afraid of not being a good mother, and most afraid, perhaps, of losing him. But fear, gets you nowhere. Standing on your own two feet does.
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One night, thanks to my newfound friends, Matt and I went to a lakeside party. A cool breeze whipped over us. Music sounded and we followed it to a dance floor lit with a strobe light. We put down our glasses of wine. As our bodies folded together, I remembered how much I'd always loved Matt's arms; he held me like a football. And I knew we were back. We'd learned how to live in a moment, to create a moment, to demand a moment. Because sometimes that's all you can do when you're a parent.
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How do you find your hotness as a parent?