My Daddy Valentine

Last night, I went through two t-shirts again. The first was retired after being drenched with a combination of hormonal sweats and spit up. The second lasted me through breakfast when I was once again showered with more regurgitated milk.

After breakfast, I went through several other maternal skin care regimens. I was peed on three times. I exfoliated with gold fish crumbs. I took a chlorine bath with Mary as I attempted to give her a swim lesson. I did shower, but didn't get a chance to brush my hair. And I dressed for dinner tonight reliant on a natural glow as I am on day, hmmm, 21, no actually 22 without so much as a smear of lip gloss on my face. So ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

As Cupid's arrow gets ready to aim and fire at our household tomorrow, I feel like my dapper husband, who Mary calls 'handsome' every morning as he heads off to work, deserves something a little more glamorous.

But then I remember that look. The one he gave Bobby on Saturday as he told me to rest a little longer. He leaned into the baby's bassinet, mouth agape in the biggest, loving smile, and said, 'let's go buddy.' I saw him walk out of the room, no strut out of the room, beaming with pride at his mini me.

And then I remember the look he gave Mary on Wednesday as he was dipping her in concert with Cinderella as Prince Charming waltzed her up and down the grand room of the Royal Ball.

And then there were all the looks he gave me over the past several weeks: As we hand children off from bathing to diapering to PJ stations each night; As he steals a peak at me out of the corner of his eye when we're reading as a family before bed; And as he asks to help me through dazed eyes in the middle of the night as I move Bobby from bed to boob to placate his hunger. Despite the lack of glamour in our life right now, each of these looks tells me one thing: that our household is filled with nothing but love.

Several months ago, as we were evaluating the arrival of Robert into our lives, and calculating the costs that we would incur with two children as our dependents, my mind wandered into a world without kids. Peter said there was a name of it: DINKs. Double income, no kids. Ah. Weekender vacations. Neiman Marcus binges. Five-star restaurants. And a little more champagne than normal.

Instead we have replaced the luxuries that we might be able to afford with diapers and bottles; tantrums and time outs; and a whole lot less sleep. But there's something about all these rigors that has brought my husband and I closer than ever. It's a bond, a private reservation for two, that no VIP couple can beat.

Thank you to my Daddy Valentine for always giving your three babies all your love. Happy Valentine's Day.

Love.
Lo.
And Mary.
And Robert.