A little over a year ago, my husband and I were attempting to reconnect after wading through an ocean of mutual resentment, imagined slights and increasingly exasperating circular arguments after the birth of our second baby. So much of our life had changed over a short two years, which created a dissonant rift in our relationship that ran alongside our existential angst caused by Covid, environmental anxiety, multiple wars breaking out, five months of terrible weather and significant financial strain.
Our discombobulation echoed through every interaction as we navigated life with two small kids and minimal support. With no other adults around, we squared off against each other and lashed out, each feeling deeply misunderstood.
In hindsight, I see how much of this was caused by environmental factors and utter, bone-deep exhaustion. I can see now that had Superman and Wonder Woman subbed in to relieve us of our domestic pressure a couple of times a week, we would have found our way back to each other just fine. Unfortunately, hiring a couple of hot people wearing tight underwear to do our laundry and cooking was not in our budget (side note: this is an excellent business idea).
Instead, after months of feeling like we were speaking two different languages, we decided to seek help through couples therapy.
What we found in therapy was deeply profound. Not so much the content, but simply the act of intentionally taking time to connect deeply and speak about the difficult things taking up space in our hearts, shifted something for us. It was as if a translator had come in and began teaching us how to hear the other's language. Our issues were still the same and still largely unresolved but our ability to communicate those discrepancies and the feelings that shrouded them was enhanced. Still, the sessions were challenging as we excavated our relational wounds to rewrite our internal narratives and meet each other with love and compassion in lieu of bristling resentment. The foundation for compassion and understanding was painstakingly laid.
After a few months, I began to crave positive connection: fun and joy, the other side of the coin to the hard work and emotional turmoil that dominated our relationship. And as that craving settled in, I had a bleak realisation.
The only time that we were spending together with any kind of intention of connection without the kids present was in that one hour a fortnight in therapy.
I made a plan then and there, and thus was born the monthly date days. The rules were simple: at least three child-free hours arranged once per month to enable us to spend quality time together with the intention of fun and loving connection.
I remember sitting across from my husband on that first date and thinking: do we have anything in common anymore? Do we even still like each other?
It was a bit awkward, not particularly satisfying and more than a little sad. But we persisted… only for the following two dates to be concluded with the mother of all arguments. Our day to day life was so full and our cups so drained that our fragile peace was balanced on a trigger hair, setting off at the slightest loud exhale or misconstrued scowl.
We persevered, knowing that three hours once a month was not going to move mountains instantaneously. We painstakingly laid bricks of light and joy upon our new foundation built in therapy. And we held onto the shimmering core of our connection, the solid thread that held even in our darkest moments. There were times I couldn’t see it, but it was there. A kernel of knowing, a feeling of rightness hidden beneath hurt and weariness.
Slowly, over months of consistent intentional quality time without the kids, we began to remember why we were together to begin with. We began to laugh, to talk without yelling, to touch without cringing. We began to have fun, leaving our internal trauma excavation to the side to meet each other with acceptance for exactly where we were at.
Fast forward to the present, and it’s still a battle to carve time for ourselves. It still takes work to find the motivation to show up imperfectly. This has resulted in some very fun and connective experiences and some epic fails. Usually it’s a combination of the two.
There are two mantras I hold dear: something is better than nothing, and one slip on the mountain does not take you all the way back to base camp. We are consistently inconsistent, moving with the rapid flow of our family life and working to face each other with compassion and curiosity.
We’ve given each other permission to lower all expectations and to pour more of our limited resources into cultivating fun and play in our relationship. The side effects of this trickle throughout the whole family, our children receiving the fruits of our fuller cups.
It needs to be said that though no superheroes came to our aid, our kids did grow older. We emerged from early postpartum, and that fact alone created space for our relationship that simply wasn't there in the two years prior. The furore of sleeplessness, breastfeeding and tending to every need of two infants meant our capacity was already over-stretched and our relationship naturally took a backseat.
Through the journey of fighting for our relationship, I realised that centring joy and play, allowing ease and rest, and chasing connection and pleasure are the most radical acts of all. In a society that values work, money and achievement above all else, these acts contravene our socialised selves to bring us back to the basic mammalian needs that still underpin our every relationship and ultimately, our overall feeling of wellness.
We still argue and misunderstand each other. But now, I can see that solid cord connection, the resonant spark between us, with little effort at all.
