Too close for comfort

“Were you just doing a poo?” Learner Dad asked.
I turned around to see if Master Seven was behind me.
Nope, he was asking me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Were you just doing a poo?” he said again, grinning.
“No it was just an incredibly long wee,” I muttered, walking back out of the bathroom.
A year after moving in together, Learner Dad and I have well and truly hit our comfort zone.
It may have started when he had to take me to the toilet during labour.
Or maybe it was when he glanced at my guts during the C-section.
Either way, having a baby certainly ‘opened up’ many new areas of conversation.
I mean, who else are you going to talk to when the pain medication and iron tablets prescribed post-birth leave you so clogged up you spend an entire AFL match in the toilet?
And who else are you going to celebrate with when the Metamucil-spiked prune juice finally kicks in?
But it doesn’t stop there.
The other night Learner Dad inexplicably smelled my shoes.
Literally put them up to his nose and inhaled.
This was no fetish. These were my running shoes and clearly he was trying to tell me something.
It wasn’t long after that I interrupted a kiss to tell him he needed to clean his teeth.
When did we become this?
Only a year ago I was clad in skirt and heels, hair and make-up immaculate, flirting with Learner Dad in the newsroom.
As far as he knew, I didn’t poo, had no visible intestines, and my feet radiated lavender at all times.
When did I become this bra-less, occasionally unshowered woman slothing around in spew-stained trackies, discussing my bowel movements?
The other day (a tank top kinda day) I was horrified to realise I’d only shaved under one arm.
And when Learner Dad commented that my hair looked ‘different’, I had to tell him it was because I hadn’t washed it.
As for make-up?
Forget about it. The only one wearing any make-up these days is him!
(To clarify, this is a requirement of his job.)
We recently hit the social circuit together.
He donned a suit and looked pretty much like he does every day – a man going to work.
But it was a chance for me to pull on a dress and heels, dust off the hair straightener and get my glamour on.
For several hours, we were a happy couple, out and having fun.
As soon as we got home, we raced to get the dress off and the boobs out.
Out for milking that is.
As we sat on the couch, me still in my heels and pumping away into a bottle, we chatted contentedly about our night.
We were no longer out, but we were still a happy couple, having fun.


4 thoughts on “Too close for comfort

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