Always choose love? Don’t be ridiculous. Choose life. Choose joy. Choose to be reckless and passionate. Choose to make out. The kids will be just fine; their ancestors did survive a pretty brutal cave-dwelling, after all. Our love for them is constant. It’s not going to fade if we miss a trip to ride go-karts or eat bacon. They don’t need us to elevate them as little gods or hover above them from now until they depart the nest. They need to see us being stupid, being passionate. They need to see us groping their mothers. They need to be encouraged to one day be equally stupid and passionate, to grope or be groped while dreaming of building a Deathmobile.
Our wives, on the other hand, need much more than stupidity and dreams of Deathmobiles. They deserve much more, especially as they carried the little buggers while we were busy drinking for two. And it’s up to us to give it to them, to show them why we went temporarily insane for them. To remind them that although they may be wonderful, perfect, nurturing mothers, they are first and foremost our wives, the objects of our passion. As such it’s not too much to ask that, in service to both society at large and our little platoons, we throw the kids out in the yard, grab those women, and give them the old reminder. Then we can sit back, relax, and enjoy a bourbon as they float through the home satiated, happy, and in charge—women in full, in it for the long haul with us as our wives and lovers, not exhausted mothers in service to little gods.
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