Saturday night, 8:45 pm, Rihanna bumping in the background, hips ready to get down. It’s that time of the week.
My hips can’t help it though– they work into something so familiar, it’s inevitable. Safe to me, known to me, and it’s like my body knows what to do. Looking around to check my space and bodies, I bend down… and clutch my chest, with a sleeping baby in the Ergo carrier, and wring out the mop. This is how my Saturday nights are now. Remnants of my life just three years prior, when not pregnant or chasing a kid, peek in every so often. Gone are the dance club days with Rihanna and her Top 40 music friends alike. I just enjoy a bit of that club-thumping music with a little dance partner, who hijacks the mop and wants to drink the bucket water. Last night, my little family did a bit of overdue cleaning since I haven’t had any energy to deep-clean since the night before Lanoy was born.
This night, I reminded Gym Hottie of how this wouldn’t be us in a million years if someone asked us three years ago what we’d be doing. He grabs me (and the baby) and requests we dirty dance like we did three years ago, and I giggle at the silly request. Humnoy giggles at Dada humping behind me because he’s never seen us joke around like that before, least not in front of him. I giggle again because I can’t imagine life otherwise.
How did you spend Saturday nights before kids?
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