Be Wine.

Ja’dore, my darlings. It’s Valentine’s awareness month.

A time when we must look upon those poor, unfortunate young ones who suffer from the short term condition known as Valentine’s Day Romance, and support them through this time.

Fear not those affected! It will all be over soon.

Romance shifts ever so slightly when one of you has watched the other squeeze a human from the parts that were once considered a target. Not to mention feeding them from the buffet of breast that had previously been for amusement purposes only.

‘Oh, so that’s what they do.’ They look on and learn, bewildered that the imagery they’re accustom to had taught them so very, very differently. 

You see, when it comes to romance and the parenting world, it’s hard for the tsunami of advertising to convince us all that it lies in within the shell of a heart shaped lolly. Not because we don’t believe in it, but because we have seen love in its broader spectrum and have tipped the scales towards the side where it runs thickest. 

It may not die, but it surely hides. 

I met my longest serving Valentine, Soccer Hubby, when I was 19.  When we started dating, the usual array of mushy loveness ensued. Weekly flowers, notes hidden in my study books, romantic holidays etc. Then, of course, the moment arrived when he knelt before me with a glass slipper balanced on a satin cushion, and asked if I would be his happily ever after. 

The thing about Ever After though, is that it’s a really bloody long time.

At some point, regardless of how much your former self proclaimed unconditional admiration for this person, the time will come when you will want to staple their discarded soccer socks to their earlobes. 

And I do want to. I really, really do.

Problem is, the tall-dark-handsome looks that Soccer Hubby once supplied as bait, are still perfectly intact. The man literally ages backwards. With the exception of the Borat accent that accompanies his occasional beard growth, he remains an absolute delight to behold. 

I hate him bitterly for it.

With jealous contrast, I have aged like anyone who has two small children and seven million things to do. My hips have widened, my breasts are hardworking, and the fuse of my temper appears to have shrunk with age. 

That is just what happens. All that glittery-pink-frilly-rose-scented hoopla that once hooked us into a glow of oozing romantic hormones, is now completely void.

Long walks along the beach are exceptionally harder when you’re considering sunscreen application, appropriate headwear and monitoring that both children are still accounted for.

My apologies Bon Jovi, but if I were to walk in and find my bed dowsed with roses, my immediate reaction would be; ‘Bollocks. That is going to take me a month to vacuum.’

You want to impress a mother, just make the bed and put the cushions on correctly.

For men who once looked to bouquets of flowers for points, I’m afraid you’re no longer playing a home ground advantage. 

We’re wiser, fatigued, frazzled and to be completely honest, probably thinking that the thorns pose a slight child safety issue. 

It’s not that mothers purposely set out to be difficult, and it’s not that the other half have stopped caring. It’s just that so much has changed over the years, it is now at the point where we’re sceptical that you could still adore us given all that we’ve endured. And for the most part, our partners are left scratching their heads wondering what it is exactly that is left for them to use as expressive tools. 

‘Romance, why bother?’ Stands the general reaction given by couples clicking over into long service leave availability.  

Yep. What initially captures our hearts as youths soon changes, but it does leave with it a wonderful challenge to trigger our heartstrings.

Romance is still available, you just have to look outside the chocolate box. 

Quite regularly, when I am on the brink of a meltdown and wondering if the redundancy of housework will be my downfall, Soccer Hubby comes striding through the door and smiles ‘I’ve missed my girls!’

The difference now is that a) he is referring to myself and our children, and b) in place of roses, he now arms himself with a bottle of Rosé Moscato. 

When standing in the middle of the kitchen screaming, ‘you know what, I give up! I hate cakes and I’m never making another one evereverever!’ One look at a man scrubbing away at dishes and my heart instantly instructs me to end my strike and immediately bake him a cake.

‘I’m going to take the kids downstairs and let you have a bit of a sleep-in,’ says he.

‘I’m going to buy that guy a new playstation game and not nag him when he stays up until 4am trying to complete it,’ responds the smitten wife.

Oh, how it sends my heart a-flutter when while separated by two snoring children, Soccer Hubby still manages to tap my ankle with his big toe and whisper ‘goodnight’ over the top of the two little ones who insist on sleeping horizontally between us.

‘Dinner for two tonight?’ says he.

‘Oh, yes please!’ say I

‘You and Miss K have a good time.’ says he.

Romantic Adaption. It’s custom made.  

Even if I could go back to the days when all it took was a card and a long stem rose to make me giddy, would I really find that any more fulfilling than someone offering to vacuum for me?

This soccer-sock-discarding, Sasha Baron Cohan-looking, I’ll-do-it-in-a-minute-saying Soccer Hubby, I do adore him so. 

And it’s all his fault.

He has helped me create this world where there is just so much love surrounding us, that it can literally just not possibly be depicted in a heart shaped card this Valentine’s day. Love is not just in the air anymore, it is in everything.

Parenthood isn’t romantically challenged, it’s a romance challenge. Accept it.

After all, happy wife, happy life.