Anatomy of Date Night


Any married couple with children knows how elusive time alone with one's spouse can be.  
Some days Hubby and I barely say three words to each other. When he comes home from work, I hardly have time to give him a peck and ask about his day before three little boys bombard him, all clamoring for his attention.  We can forget having a conversation at the dinner table.  While I feed the baby and try to get Lil C to eat anything, Hubby is trying to keep our older two at the table.


After dinner there are clean-up and bedtime routines and a baby to put to bed. By the time the chaos dies down and everyone is asleep, Hubby and I are both so tired, so desperate for a little quiet time in our own heads, we often retire to separate rooms of the house to watch t.v. or work on our computers.


When we were first married, we made pact that we would go out on a real date every month. One month he would plan, the next I would and so on. It worked for a while, until we got busy with our twins, and then we moved across the country.


And then we had more kids. And then cancer. And then we were grieving. And then I was pregnant, again. You get the gist.


There is never going to be more time Life is never going to slow down.  Hubby always says, "It's just going to keep getting harder." The past eight years have taught me this is true.
But, regardless, I knew we needed a night out. So, I secured a babysitter and planned a nice dinner for Hubby and me at a trendy restaurant in an up-and-coming part of town. I even wore a dress! We were both looking foward to that much-needed alone time.

What follows is a break-down of our evening.


Don't Pinch My Baby's Cheeks!


What is with strangers touching my kids? I don't mean touching-touching, because that's nothing to joke about. I mean people coming up and patting my son's head with their grubby mitts, pinching my daughter's chubby cheeks, or trying to hold one of their cute, irresistible hands.

Resist, I say. You're being weird.

Misophonia. Which Means OHMYGODPLEASESHUTUP!


My husband is eating a blackberry five inches from my face, and it’s as loud as fuck. I lean back and give him the evil eye, and he knows he needs to stop making the noise immediately or I am going to throw him down. He laughs, takes a step closer, crunches louder and in my ear, tells me I’m crazy. I run out of the room, my heart pounding. He’s the one capable of making a blackberry crunch at epic decibels. Clearly, the crazy one here is him!
I have been told I am not the most normal person in certain situations. When someone sneezes in a car, I roll down my window with the urgency of a crack addict looking for another hit. When we go to Costco to buy toilet paper in bulk, and some lazy asshole is dragging his feet on the concrete floor, I feel like I’m going to vomit. When we go to the movies and get trapped between mouth-stuffing popcorn eaters, I need to move my seat.

An Open Letter to My Sons About Peeing in the Toilet



To My Dear Sons,

I love you more than my own life. There’s probably not much I wouldn’t do for you, including giving you that last bite of my ice cream. I mean…if I’m stupid enough to eat something yummy in your presence instead of hiding behind the bathroom door like any sane mom would do, I figure its fair game and I should probably just give up and share.

I’m a good mom…mostly. I lied and told your father the cat knocked over his genuine made-in-Bavaria beer stein.