It was a rare, golden moment in the Miller household.
Our 14-year-old daughter was at a friend's house, and our 17-year-old son had just driven off to play racquetball with a few buddies. This left my husband, Tim*, and me alone in our house.
As the front door slammed and we heard the car pull out of the driveway, realization dawned and Tim and I looked up from our computers. We were alone in the house. Tim waggled his eyebrows; I responded with a smoldering "come hither" wink.
We shut down computers, hightailed it for the bedroom, and began gleefully disrobing faster than a couple of trained strippers.
And then the phone rang.
Mom? Becky has a dance lesson. Could someone pick me up now?
I didn't have to say a word—Tim read the news on my face. His expression darkened with frustration, and he all but stamped his foot. "I can't believe it! We never have time for this anymore. I may as well enter a monastery."
Though time and some distance have given us the ability to chuckle at that memory, the frustration Tim expressed (and we both felt) is valid and ongoing. Late night, early morning, mid-day—no matter the timing, we're constantly faced with obstacles when it comes to lovemaking. And while as a woman I can accept this is a season in our lives that will eventually pass, as a man who's wired completely differently from me, that just doesn't work for Tim. It's the equivalent of me saying, "I know you're hungry, honey, but hang in there. A couple more years, and you'll be able to eat whenever you want!"1