I Want You To Be Mine Again Baby: Fetty Wap & Postpartum Love

Before the twins were born, I made the fatal error of asking people for advice on what to play for them audibly. My mum, firmly rooted in the pseudo-science of the late nineties, insisted that playing classical symphonies would instantly wire their developing brains for advanced calculus. My mate Dave, who has zero children and a disposable income I can only weep about, told me to just play my usual 90s hip-hop and whatever trap tracks I had on rotation so they could "get used to the vibe from day one." The health visitor, meanwhile, peered over her glasses at me in our cramped London flat and suggested maintaining a perfectly quiet, soothing environment entirely free from digital stimulation.

Currently, I'm sitting on the living room rug at 3:14 am, covered in something that I'm aggressively hoping is just mashed banana, doing none of those things. Twin A is asleep on my chest, emitting a faint wheezing sound, while Twin B is staring unblinkingly at the ceiling fan. I've one wireless earbud in, trying to maintain my own tenuous grip on sanity, and my Spotify search history is a tragic, sleep-deprived mess. Just above "is neon green nappy output a medical emergency," you'll find the exact phrase fetty wap i want you to be mine again baby, because my mushy brain couldn't for the life of me remember the actual name of his 2015 track "Again."

And as I sat there in the dark, listening to the specific radio station that spawned from my desperate i want you to be mine again baby fetty wap query, the sheer, devastating irony of the lyrics hit me like a flying plastic block. I wasn't mourning a lost romance from my twenties. I was looking across the room at my wife, who was passed out face-down on the sofa wearing my old, stained tracksuit bottoms, and I realised I just wanted my pre-baby relationship back.

The trap music debate in my living room

Let's address the music thing first, because the guilt of potentially ruining your children's hearing is a heavy burden to bear when you just want to listen to something with a bit of bass. Dave's advice to just blast whatever I wanted seemed highly suspect, so I casually brought it up to our GP during one of the twins' early weigh-ins. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and medical concern, and vaguely explained that infant ear canals are terrifyingly tiny and highly sensitive.

From what my exhausted brain could gather from her explanation, exposing babies to anything over the volume of a normal conversation for extended periods can actually do permanent damage to those microscopic hair cells in their ears. She threw around terms like "decibel limits" and "auditory development," which essentially translated to: if the bass is rattling the windows, you're probably guaranteeing they'll need hearing aids by their thirtieth birthday. So I live in a state of perpetual paranoia, hovering over the volume button on my phone, ensuring the trap beats are kept at a gentle, whisper-quiet hum that completely ruins the aesthetic of the song but ostensibly protects their tiny eardrums.

As for my mum's Mozart theory, I don't honestly care if classical music makes them better at maths; I just want them to sleep through the night so we can watch a single television programme without subtitles.

That specific lyric hitting too close to home

Fetty Wap is an unlikely source of big postpartum reflection, but grief takes many forms. When you've twins, the transition from "happily married couple who spontaneously go to the pub on a Tuesday" to "hostile shift-workers operating a 24-hour milk production facility" happens overnight. We're flatmates. We're coworkers who don't particularly like each other at the moment, communicating entirely through clipped sentences about nap durations and Calpol dosages.

I recall reading somewhere (probably while doomscrolling at an ungodly hour) that the vast majority of couples see their relationship satisfaction completely plummet in the first three years of parenthood. The Gottman people, who study these things so we don't have to, suggest it's around 67 percent. I'm honestly shocked it's not higher. Between the hormone crashes, the complete evaporation of personal space, and the fact that I haven't slept for more than three consecutive hours since last autumn, the idea of romance feels as distant and fictional as a quiet household.

You look at this person you love, who's currently covered in the same bodily fluids you're, and you just want to shake them and say, "baby, I want you to be mine again." But you can't, because if you wake them up to express this emotional vulnerability, they'll likely divorce you on the spot for interrupting their REM sleep.

Small steps toward actual romance

The advice books are universally terrible at solving this. Page 47 of the main one we bought suggests you "prioritise intimacy," which I found deeply unhelpful and bordering on offensive when my primary priority is not dropping a baby. They tell you to schedule date nights, as if finding a babysitter who's willing to handle two screaming toddlers isn't a logistical nightmare requiring NATO-level negotiations.

Instead of grand gestures, we've had to settle for tiny, pathetic victories. My GP mentioned that the physical recovery takes a few weeks, but the emotional readiness to even view each other as romantic entities takes much, much longer. We don't try to force it anymore. Try sitting on the kitchen floor drinking lukewarm tea while the babies are distracted, making brief eye contact, and deliberately not talking about how many wipes we've left in the cupboard—it's surprisingly good.

It also helps when the babies are momentarily occupied, which is why I've become fiercely loyal to certain objects in our house that buy us thirty seconds of peace. My absolute favourite is the Crochet Deer Rattle Teething Toy. Twin A uses the untreated wooden ring quite delicately to soothe her gums, while Twin B prefers to use it as a blunt instrument to assert dominance. Because it's organic cotton, it absorbs the frankly unbelievable amount of drool they produce, and I can just wash it without worrying about weird chemicals. It's saved us from complete meltdowns on several occasions, giving my wife and I enough time to exchange a tired smile across the room.

On the slightly less miraculous but still useful front, we've the Bamboo Baby Blanket with Colorful Leaves. It's fine. It's very soft, and the bamboo genuinely seems to stop them from waking up soaked in sweat, which is a massive win. The watercolour leaf pattern is a bit botanical for my personal taste—I prefer things a bit more muted—but it functions exactly as promised, and fewer night-time wake-ups from overheating means a slightly less hostile morning briefing with the wife.

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The food flinging phase and domestic harmony

Nothing kills the fragile, recovering romantic vibe in a house faster than spending your evening scraping pureed carrots off the skirting boards. When we started weaning the twins, our kitchen turned into a war zone. I can't overstate the aerodynamic properties of a bowl of mashed potato when launched by a determined toddler.

If you want to reduce the domestic friction between you and your partner, invest in the Silicone Baby Bowl with Divider. The suction base on this piglet-shaped bowl is aggressive. I've nearly pulled the highchair over trying to detach it. It keeps the food mostly on the table, the sections stop them crying about the peas touching the chicken, and we spend twenty minutes less cleaning the floor every night. That's twenty minutes I get to spend sitting silently next to my wife, which is the current pinnacle of our relationship.

We're slowly crawling out of the roommate phase. We still don't have the energy for proper dates, and Fetty Wap is still strictly relegated to my headphones on low volume, but we're getting there. The babies will eventually sleep, the teeth will eventually come in, and one day we might even go to the pub on a Tuesday again.

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Questions from the trenches

When can I actually play normal music for them without headphones?
Honestly, the official line seems to be that as long as it's kept at a conversational volume (around 60 decibels), you can play it whenever. Just don't put them right next to the speaker, and maybe skip the tracks with heavy, vibrating bass until they're much older. My GP made me paranoid enough that I mostly stick to acoustic covers now, which is a tragic reality I'm still coming to terms with.

How do we stop feeling like exhausted flatmates?
You don't, not right away. Lower your expectations to the floor, and then dig a little hole and lower them further. Stop trying to have magical date nights and just focus on ten minutes of daily conversation that doesn't involve the phrase "did you check the nappy." It feels forced at first, but it genuinely helps bridge the gap.

Will the twins ever nap at exactly the same time?
Occasionally, the stars will align, the wind will blow from the east, and both will close their eyes simultaneously. It's a terrifying, beautiful moment. You will likely spend the entire duration staring at the monitor, too anxious to relax, waiting for one of them to cough and wake the other up.

How do you clean that wooden deer teether when it gets inevitably covered in muck?
The crochet part can handle a spot clean with some mild soap and water. For the wooden ring, I just wipe it down with a damp cloth and let it air dry. Don't chuck the wooden bit in the dishwasher unless you want it to splinter and become entirely useless.

What if my partner and I just have absolutely nothing to say to each other right now?
That's normal. Your brains are currently operating on fumes and survival instincts. Shared silence is highly underrated. Sit on the sofa, put on a terrible television programme, and just exist in the same room without demanding witty banter from someone who has been repeatedly kicked by a toddler since dawn.