Finding love, getting married, buying a house, and having 2.2 kids where mom wears an apron and dad clenches a briefcase is an outdated advertisement for people still on AOL.
I am forty seven years old. I am not married. My girlfriend is thirty six. Our daughter is five months old. She was born into a pandemic. She hasn’t seen many faces other than ours. We are both therapists. We work from home.
And we’re one and done. 1.0. No 2.2. Not interested in The Brady Bunch life. Now that we’re out of the first few months of survival mode where you lose complete sense of who you are and our life plane has stabilized, we are finding balance and ourselves again. We are both equally active in the childrearing and upkeep. I do dishes and change diapers while she gets her yoga class in. She breastfeeds and takes Logan on walks while I go to the gym and get my motorcycle rides in. We travel. Go out to eat. Play with sex toys. We are back. (Quick note: “Back” is not easy. It takes lots of work, that becomes a lifestyle. Not just a decision.) And now that we have found ourselves again, nothing has really changed before Logan came into our life save less sleep and planning when you need to shit.
