Me and my wife have two kids, and they’re kicking our ass at the moment.

We got married young— well, we’ve been together since she was 16 and I was 17. We got married at 22, after she finished college and I was settled in the rugby world.

Then, unexpectedly, after too much fun on our wedding night we had our first son, Rory.

He was an angel. Hardly cried, slept through the night at 7 months, and wasn’t overly clingy.

Then, two years after Rory was born came Conner. Conner was a little shit. I love my son to death, but my god, he’s clingy.

Even now, he’s one and a half years old and still waking up crying for his mum.

She’s exhausted.

I’m exhausted.

Everyone’s exhausted.

Being exhausted isn’t good for a marriage. We love each other a lot, I would give anything for my wife. But that dosen’t mean we don’t bicker a lot.

We try to keep it to a minimum and communicate. But it’s hard.

I feel bad because I’m not around enough as I should be. Traveling for rugby and whatnot.

I just got finished putting Conner back to sleep, and yes, it involved his third bottle of milk for the night. Because I’m tired, and she’s tired. I’m not fighting him on it.

Elena was awake, because our sons screams can be heard throughout the whole house.

Laying back down on my side of the bed, I sighed, giving her a little smile. “He wants you.”

“I don’t care,” she murmured grumbly into her pillow, making me chuckle. “He’s a little asshole.” She added.

“Baby,” I patted the top of her hair, scooting closer to her. We don’t snuggle as much anymore, because we’re always so tired and need alone time, but it makes me sad. Because I love her so much. “I’m really sorry, but I have another match next week and I need to be training for then, we’re going against Mexico and I’m leaving in a bit for my plane.”