At least we didn’t talk about the contents of her diapers
We had visiting childcare this weekend, so took the opportunity to spend some time by sans Bun Bun. First we had a massage, which was awesome. I can turn my head several degrees further than I’ve been able to since the second trimester. Then we went out to dinner, which was also awesome, as I had almost as much liquor as I wanted. We shared a half-bottle of wine, and I commented that it tasted good, which is a technical term used by oenophiles. Mr. Bunny showed his superior knowledge of the vintage by saying it tasted jammy. We looked at each other. We looked away. We looked at each other and said in unison: Froggy Jammies. Because, you see:
|One of her preferred outfits.|
Then we laughed. Then my milk let down. So, Bun Bun was never far from our thoughts, and we have proven our parenting chops by saying Froggy Jammies in a hip and upscale-ish restaurant.
I also worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Bunny how he’s doing with the whole celibacy thing. He said I shouldn’t feel any pressure to reengage, and that he’d read women didn’t have much interest while breastfeeding. SWEET! I love a man who does his research.
I did NOT work up the nerve to ask whether the reason he’s willing to forgo getting laid is because he finds me disgusting.
Perhaps next time.