“I want to buy you a LBD (little black dress) for our trip to Colorado. Any input?”
The text message from my husband flashed across my phone. He was working out of town, and I had just gotten three babies in bed by myself. I was tired. No. I was exhausted. I had been on mommy duty all day long (while also trying to meet my deadline on my book, and keep up with my blog, and encourage the hearts of mommas everywhere.)
I wanted to open up my computer and put my feet up and not think about anything. I was ready to check out. Truth be told, I’m not sure I had even showered yet when I received his message. The baby had woken up at 5:30, my oldest right behind him at 6, and I never even had a chance to stop and take a minute for me. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to my husband about getting dressed up and trying to be sexy.
I first thought about replying, “Yes. You may buy me any dress that you would like… so long as it’s not little or black or a dress.”
I did not feel like picturing this body in anything that showed it off. My youngest is 8 months old, and while the scale tells me a number that is close to what it said before my three kids came along, my mirror hasn’t gotten the memo. The mirror still shows me a body that has been growing people for a total of 27 months in the last five years. I have grown and shrunk and stretched and lost and gained and dropped and… well, had three babies.
I’m a momma now.
I would have been much more comfortable with putting on a cute pair of jeans and a blouse with a jacket and enjoying a dinner out with my husband… and there would have been nothing wrong with that. There is nothing wrong with putting on what makes you feel good and wearing it proudly no matter your shape or size.
But as much as I wanted to tell my husband, “Look, buddy, that’s not happening, so just forget about it.”
I stopped and I listened to his heart for a minute.
See, while it’s so easy for me to see all of the things that have changed, and all the areas that I need to “fix” (that don’t really need fixing,) that sweet husband of mine apparently doesn’t see things the way that I do when he looks at me.
He has this crazy way of still seeing me… His wife.
He still sees the woman that he fell in love with, and apparently, he is still attracted to her – (baggy t-shirts and extra baby fluff and all.)
I think that’s the truth for a lot of husbands. They know that our roles change when we become Mommy, but when they look at us they don’t see mommy. They see the woman they fell in love with. They see the woman who said, “Yes” to becoming their wife.
But I don’t think they really know how to tell us, “Hey, remember when you were mine?”
And honestly? It feels so hard to remember how to be theirs, when we don’t even remember how to be us some days… when we put ourselves last over and over… when we look in the mirror and don’t even know where to start.
So, as I held that phone in my hand, deciding how I would respond, I made a choice, and I replied, “I think I would like something that has a little bit of lace on it.”
Because while I could have pushed my husband away, I chose to remember myself. I chose to remember a woman worth caring about, who has a husband that loves her and who is a person beyond being a Mommy. I chose to remember that I am worth my own attention. And I chose to remember that if my husband thinks I’m attractive, then I am. And sometimes showing him (and reminding myself) means letting him buy me a little black dress.
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