I called my husband “Daddy”…and not in a desirable way. Not even in a once-edgy, white-girl-gone-gangsta kind of way. But in a sad, defeated, when-did-I-give-up-on-the-romance, I’m-a-shell-of-the-woman-I-once-was, kind of way. I can remember seeing that classic old couple in movies long ago. The pair sitting in matching rocking chairs on their porch, referring to one another as “Mother” and “Father.” And I can remember thinking to myself how incredibly creepy that really was. I would never head down that path of wrong…and yet, here I am. I also admit to using the words “potty” and “num nums” in our recent conversations, too chronically exhausted to correct my sad, sad error, or even apologize for my spiral downwards into a world drowning in primary colors and baby wipes. When did my purse become a diaper bag? When did a wild night out become Chic-Fil-A and Nick Jr.? My poor, poor husband.