Yesterday, while I was folding laundry, “The Mr” pranced into our family room obviously excited about something. Without a word he scooped my hand into his and pulled me up from the couch. As we began our walk towards the front door I became curious as to what was making him so happy.
“Where are we going” I asked, his obvious excitement creeping in
“Shhhhh” he hissed. Turning into our darkened den just off the entryway to our home.
“OH MY GOSH!” I exclaimed ” Are we going into the den to make out like teenagers?!”
He dropped my hand, his excitement seeming to drain for a second before he pointed into the glass home that contained one of our tortoises. “Frank is eeeeeeeeaating.” He whispered. “Frank the Tank” is the youngest of our two tortoises.” I know how much you love to watch Frank eat. LOOK!” he cried.
The Mr. was right. The very simple act of watching Frank the Tank eat does in fact make me smile. This episode was not a let down. However, as I sat there smiling like a dope watching Frank open his tiny toothless mouth to devour that large,red, delicious apple a dark thought crept into my mind. I could not remember the last time I’d made out “like a high school kid” with my husband.
How is that even possible?! I’m not talking about those “can I rub your back” make out sessions done just before bed. (we all know where that leads….) I’m talking about like, no kidding, heart racing, hands flailing,lip numbing, don’t come up for air till your face is purple, kind of make out sessions. The ones that fill you with a rush of youthfulness that even I must admit has long since passed.
Suddenly, I was looking at The Mr. like he was a slab of meat for the taking. Eyebrows arched, head cocked to the right, full on stare down as I contemplated my next move. Turning to face him, I dragged my hand across his chest, stopping just at his heart. I began to push him gently to the sofa.
“What’s up babe?” he asked naively.
“Shhhhh.I’m being sexy” I whispered shoving him onto the sofa and straddling his lap ,kissing him deeply. My kisses were met eagerly, our worry about being caught by our children slowly subsiding as we began to enjoy each other in this rare episode of spontaneity.
Just as we began to relax and fall into the roles of “high school kids making out” reality walked into the room and flipped on the light. “Mom? Mom. What’s the password iTunes? WHAT are you doing?!” Shrieked my oldest.
“I’m making out with your dad” I replied not taking my eyes off of my prey. “Turn the light off and leave this room now.”
I wasted no time picking up where we had left off. Cupping his face in my hands and bearing my weight down for balance.
“Mooooooooooooom?” I heard. This time from Baby #2.(aka the son) “I can’t find dad. I need him to get me a tool from the garage.”
“He’s trapped underneath me. Getting smothered with kisses” I answered.
“Ew. Why would he be doing that?”
“Because, damn it. I”m trying to be sexy” I mumbled. All enjoyment seeping out of me like a squeezed balloon.
That was that. My moment was gone.Any hope of capturing a glimpse at my youthful, perky self had depleted.That’s when I began to miss my younger self. The vibrant, smart and witty, never afraid to put on her bikini self. I wanted to find her and punch her in the face for ever taking her time, body and energy for granted.
If someone had told me not to take my youth for granted, to spend more time on me and not to rush into adulthood I would’ve laughed at them. Youthful arrogance will get ya every time…..