Is that romantic fantasy real? Um, after kids, no. Take the kids

“Is that romantic fantasy real? Um, after kids, no. Take the kids away, I don’t know. Depends.” Thus spoke Robin Wright, with honesty carved from the trials of life. In her words lies a truth that is both tender and sobering: that the visions of love we once cherished, glowing with perfection, are altered when tested by the burdens of responsibility and the weight of family. The romantic fantasy—that shimmering dream of endless passion untouched by struggle—gives way to a love that is reshaped, scarred, and yet perhaps more profound.

The ancients too spoke of this paradox. In the poetry of Sappho, love was fire, consuming and radiant. Yet in the chronicles of family life, in the works of Hesiod, the labor of raising children was shown to be toil, filled with worry, sacrifice, and endless tasks. The poets of Greece and Rome did not hide from this truth: the flame of desire is tempered when life demands sleepless nights, provision, and endurance. Wright’s words echo this ancient wisdom—romantic fantasy shines brightly in youth, but when tested by the rigors of family, its glow must compete with the fires of duty.

Yet this is not a lament. To admit that the romantic fantasy wanes after children is not to say that love itself dies. Rather, it transforms. Love ceases to be a dream painted in moonlight and becomes instead a practice carved out in the midst of exhaustion, patience, and shared sacrifice. The passion of lovers is reshaped into the devotion of parents, and though the fantasy fades, a different kind of bond emerges—one forged not in illusion but in endurance.

Consider the tale of Marcus Aurelius, emperor and Stoic. He knew love not only as desire but as partnership in hardship. With Faustina, his wife, he bore the raising of many children, some lost to death, others carried into adulthood. His writings do not speak of the romantic fantasy in the way poets do, but of gratitude for her companionship amidst the unending duties of life. Their union, though not glowing with fantasy, endured through storms, and thus became something even greater than fleeting passion—it became loyalty written into the fabric of existence.

Wright’s pause—“take the kids away, I don’t know, depends”—is itself a reflection of truth. When the burdens are lifted, when the noise and chaos subside, the flame of romantic fantasy can flicker back to life. Love is not destroyed by responsibility; it is simply hidden, waiting for space to breathe again. Thus, the dream is not gone, but transformed, sometimes buried, sometimes revealed. Love is a living thing, bending with the weight of time, but not extinguished.

From this we learn a crucial lesson: do not measure love only by the presence of fantasy. For fantasy is but the first blossom of spring, and though it fades, the deeper roots of love remain. If we seek always the glitter of romance, we will despair when life’s burdens arrive. But if we honor love in its many forms—the passion of lovers, the devotion of parents, the companionship of age—we will find it richer and more enduring than fantasy could ever promise.

Practical action follows: if you are in the season of children and duty, do not despair that the romantic fantasy feels distant. Instead, nurture the quiet moments of tenderness, however small—a touch, a glance, a word of gratitude. And when the burdens lift, make room again for joy, for laughter, for the spark of desire. For love, though tested, can be renewed, not once, but many times in the course of a lifetime.

So, children of tomorrow, remember Robin Wright’s wisdom: the romantic fantasy may falter beneath the weight of life, but love itself is not bound to fantasy. It endures in labor, in sacrifice, and in renewal. Hold fast to it in all its forms, and you will discover that the truest romance is not the dream that never changes, but the love that survives change and continues to grow.