About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Et tu, date night?
Every parenting magazine says, “To stay connected to your hubby, plan a date night.”
Blah, blah, blah! We didn’t do date night before Junior, why should we start now? Date night implies cordial behavior, dressy clothes, and conversation. Right now I don’t feel like acting cordial (I have a cold), I’m still wearing yoga pants because I haven’t lost that last 10 pounds, and my husband and I are running out of things to talk about. Screw date night!
Except my mother—my over concerned, too-observant mother—insisted that Charles and I get out of the house together. Alone.
“It’s been eight months,” she said on the phone, injecting as much worry and heart wrench as possible.
“Has it?” I asked.
She told me she would be up at two. Charles and I could catch a movie. Grocery shop. Get a pay-by-the-hour hotel room.
“Mother!” (My mother is way too oversexed; at one point she thought our Golden Lab wanted to have sex with her. That’s fodder for another post.)
She arrived at three. Bless her heart she brought an Easter basket for my son. I like this age—he doesn’t know what presents are his nor does he care if his parents devour all his candy. It’s ideal.
We sat in the driveway for awhile wondering what to do. There was nothing good at the theaters. We had already had lunch. So Charles, being the party animal he is, drove to the package store and bought a six pack. Then he remembered he needed new glasses. He suggested we go to the mall, drink in the parking lot, then get his glasses.
Which we did. We parked behind the last few dirty snow mounds and pounded beer. It might sound sad and unglamorous (because it is) but I actually had a really good time. We talked for more than an hour, which is marathon talking compared to the drivel we rely on during the workweek. We talked about stupid stuff, like how people thought I was Amish in high school because I was such a goodie goodie and how he wore a suit and tie to school one day—just because he liked Alex P. Keaton—and got the shit kicked out of him.
As we walked into Lens Crafters, I was pleased to find myself thinking, Is it any wonder we came together? It was quite different than my usual thinking, which is, “This jerk might have to go.”
So thank you, stupid parenting magazines that suggest date night. I’m pretty sure our date wasn't quite what you had in mind but it was wonderful.