“You take the baby, I’ll do the dishes.”
That one sentence felt like love, negotiation, and survival—all in one breath.
Before we became parents, my husband and I used to talk about everything. Weekend plans. Random Netflix shows. What kind of old people we wanted to be someday. We were a team. A goofy, giggly, late-night-ramen kind of team.
But after our child was born?
It was like the “us” we knew got lost under piles of laundry, half-eaten meals, and Google searches like “why is baby not sleeping???”
We weren’t fighting. Not really.
But we were missing each other—passing like ships in the night with a baby monitor between us.
We weren’t talking much about anything except diapers, doctor visits, and daily schedules.
And that distance?
It didn’t come from a lack of love.
It came from burnout, unspoken expectations, and being in completely different modes of survival.
As a stay-at-home mom in Tokyo, I found myself constantly in “hyper-manage” mode—mentally juggling nap times, bath routines, and meal planning. My husband, on the other hand, was in “provider” mode—working long hours, trying to be helpful, and often unsure how to support me in a way that actually helped.
Some nights, we just sat in silence after the baby went to sleep. Not because we were mad—just… tired.
I started wondering:
Is this just what happens to every couple after kids?
Does “normal” now mean barely speaking, passing each other like co-workers in a hectic startup called Parenting Inc.?
The answer, I’ve come to realize, is:
No. But you have to actively choose otherwise.
In this post, I’ll share how my husband and I learned to reconnect—not with big gestures, but through small, consistent efforts.
We’re still learning. Still tired.
But now, we feel like teammates again—not just co-managers of our child’s life, but co-authors of our shared story.
The Day We Finally Talked (But Not About the Baby)
It started with a scribble on a sticky note.
I had written, half-jokingly:
“Tonight, let’s talk like we used to—no baby updates allowed.”
I stuck it to his water bottle before he left for work.
That night, after our child had (finally) fallen asleep and the dishes were done, we sat down at the kitchen table.
Not on the couch, not scrolling phones—just… sat.
And I asked,
“So… what’s something that made you smile today?”
He blinked at me.
Then he laughed.
“I saw an old man in a Pikachu bucket hat on the train,” he said.
And we both laughed. Really laughed.
For the first time in what felt like weeks.
The “Daily Debrief” Habit
That one moment sparked something.
We decided to make it a routine:
Ten minutes a night. No parenting talk. Just us.
At first, it felt awkward. We weren’t used to talking like adults without mentioning our child.
But slowly, those minutes became sacred.
Not every night went smoothly—some nights we skipped.
But when we stuck with it, something shifted:
- He started telling me about the small stresses of his job—not just “work was fine.”
- I told him how lonely I felt during the day, without needing to make it sound like a complaint.
- We started asking each other, “How are you really?” and actually waiting for the answer.
What Helped Us Reconnect
Here are a few surprisingly simple things that helped us begin closing the gap:
1. Set a “no chores, no screens” rule for 10 minutes a night.
Just face each other. Even if you’re both exhausted. It matters.
2. Start with curiosity, not complaints.
Instead of “You never help with ___,” try “Can I tell you what’s been hard for me lately?”
It’s amazing how tone invites or blocks connection.
3. Use paper.
We kept a little “couple’s notebook” in the kitchen.
We’d write funny things, random thoughts, or questions to ask each other.
It lowered the emotional pressure to have deep talks face-to-face.
What We Didn’t Expect
At first, I thought what we needed was more time together.
But what we really needed was better quality in the time we already had.
That didn’t mean romantic dates or grand conversations.
It meant being present, even for ten minutes, without multitasking or “parenting mode.”
It meant letting each other be tired, weird, real—and choosing to meet in the middle of that mess, not waiting for the perfect moment.
Back to Work, Back to Square One?
Just when we thought we were getting the hang of this whole “let’s stay connected as a couple” thing—life threw us a new curveball.
I returned to work.
At first, I was excited.
I missed adult conversations, lunch breaks, and the feeling of doing something beyond diapers and dishes.
But I underestimated just how much it would shake up the fragile balance we had rebuilt.
Suddenly, everything needed to be re-negotiated again:
Who would pick up our child from daycare?
What happens when our kid gets sick (again)?
What if we’re both exhausted, and the laundry is still sitting in the machine from three days ago?
The evenings that used to be our little oasis of connection?
Now they were filled with lunchbox prep, emails, toddler tantrums, and our mutual collapse on the sofa—phones in hand, brains fried.
We snapped at each other more.
Tiny things became Big Things:
- “You said you’d call the daycare, and you forgot again.”
- “I had to reschedule a meeting because you were late.”
- “I’m doing everything at home.”
- “And I’m doing everything at work.”
Old resentments that we thought we had buried started to bubble up again.
It wasn’t just about who did what—it was about feeling seen, valued, and not alone in the chaos.
The Moment I Broke Down
One night, I came home late after a long day of juggling deadlines and guilt.
Our child had already gone to sleep. My husband had fed her, bathed her, done it all.
He looked at me and said, “I don’t know how you do this every day.”
And I should have felt grateful. But instead, I just started crying.
Because I didn’t know how I was doing it either.
Because I felt like I was failing everywhere.
At work. At home. As a mom. As a partner.
And in that moment, I realized:
We weren’t fighting each other. We were both just drowning—quietly, separately.
Re-learning the Conversation
The next night, we sat down and did something we hadn’t done in a while.
We brought back the notebook.
We wrote down, separately:
- What’s been hardest lately
- What we each need more of
- What’s one small thing we can try this week
His answer to the last question?
“Let’s each get one night off a week. No parenting. No chores. Just you time.”
Mine?
“Let’s stop keeping score.”
What Shifted for Us
We didn’t fix everything overnight.
But naming the overwhelm—out loud—helped us stop blaming each other for it.
We started using a shared Google Calendar—not just for appointments, but for emotional clarity:
- “Monday = his solo night.”
- “Wednesday = my solo night.”
- “Friday = order dinner, no cooking, watch something stupid together.”
We also began asking a new question each week:
“What does support look like for you right now?”
Because the answer keeps changing.
Sometimes support is him taking over bedtime so I can journal.
Sometimes it’s me picking up the slack when he has a brutal week at work.
It’s not always 50/50. But it’s honest.
When the Distance Comes Back
We’ve learned that disconnection doesn’t always look like a fight.
Sometimes it’s silence.
Sometimes it’s pretending everything is fine.
Sometimes it’s both of us scrolling side-by-side, not saying a word.
Now, when that happens, we try not to panic.
We just say:
“Hey—I miss us.”
It’s become a simple but powerful way to say:
Let’s pause. Let’s regroup. Let’s remember who we are beneath the jobs, the meals, and the mess.
Because we’re not just parents.
We’re partners.
And we’re still writing this story—together.
Not Perfect, But Present: What Keeps Us Connected Now
We’re still tired.
We still argue about silly things, like whose turn it is to empty the trash or why the bananas always go brown too fast.
But these days, we argue with a little more laughter—and a lot more grace.
We’ve learned that staying connected as a couple after having kids isn’t about avoiding conflict or mastering some perfect routine.
It’s about creating tiny rituals, staying curious, and remembering—again and again—that we’re not on opposite sides.
We’re on the same team.
Our Everyday Anchors (a.k.a. “Marriage Maintenance, Toddler Edition”)
Here are a few small, real-life things we do now—not because we read them in a book, but because they actually help:
🌱 1. A 5-minute check-in ritual
Each evening (even if one of us is in pajamas by 8pm), we try to ask:
- “What was one thing that felt hard today?”
- “What’s one thing that made you smile?”
- “Anything I can do for you tomorrow?”
No pressure. Just presence.
📆 2. Scheduled alone time (and protected couple time)
We each get one night a week to “do nothing with purpose.”
No chores. No childcare. Just read, scroll, walk, sit in silence—whatever we want.
We also protect one night a week for a “no-kid, no-task talk”—even if that means eating instant curry together at the kitchen table.
💌 3. We leave notes instead of waiting for perfect moments
On sticky notes. In the fridge. On a coffee mug.
Little “thank yous,” “sorrys,” or “I see yous.”
Because waiting until we’re both calm, available, and undistracted? That moment never comes.
What We Stopped Believing
Here are some myths we let go of, and what replaced them:
| ❌ Old Belief | ✅ New Truth |
|---|---|
| “We should be able to read each other’s minds.” | “We need to ask and share clearly.” |
| “If we love each other, it should be easy.” | “Love stays strong because we work at it.” |
| “We need perfect balance.” | “We need to stay flexible—and forgive fast.” |
When Love Looks Like Dishes
Some days, love looks like words.
Other days, it looks like folding the laundry your partner forgot.
Or watching the baby so they can nap for 20 minutes.
Or making their favorite tea, without saying anything.
We’ve learned that love in the parenting season isn’t always poetic.
But it is powerful—if you choose to see it.
Final Thoughts (and an Invitation)
If you’re in a season where it feels like you and your partner are more like co-workers than co-dreamers, I want to say:
You’re not alone.
This phase is tough. It stretches everything—your time, your patience, your identity, your relationship.
But it doesn’t have to break you.
With a bit of honesty, some awkward conversations, and a handful of daily rituals, you can find your way back to each other.
Not back to who you were before kids—but forward, into a partnership that’s stronger, softer, and more real.
If you’re still in the middle of the fog—keep walking.
If you’ve found small ways to stay close—keep tending them.
And if you’ve forgotten what it feels like to laugh together—start small.
One sticky note.
One cup of tea.
One “I miss us.”
It counts.
It all counts.
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