Date Night. This magical phrase is a close tie for first with the other magical phrase “sleeping thru the night.” Hopefully you have experienced date night at least once. And if you haven’t had a date night ever, call me, I’ll watch your kids so you can go out for an evening. Ahhh, date night. Dress up clothes, perfume, your hair is did (this goes for you too men, if you’re reading this), quiet dinner conversation. When Henry was old enough to be left with a babysitter, Karl and I would go out for dates quite often. It was a much needed time for us to reconnect over a glass (or bottle (s)) of wine without having to talk in quick bursts and snippets. Now with our new baby in the mix, Karl and I have not had the privilege of date night yet…well, until this past weekend.
This past weekend was Karl’s company’s holiday party. Date night indeed. I was looking forward to the evening but also a bit anxious for a few reasons. One major reason is that our 12 week-old will not take a bottle. Well, actually, she will take a bottle, but only from me. Which is totally weird. She even thinks it’s weird. I pump the milk, put the milk in the bottle, and she stares up at me like, “what the f*ck is this mom?” She screams angrily at my husband when he tries to give her the bottle. It’s sad, and a little entertaining to see him flail about trying to get her to take it. I’m terrible, I know. So as you can imagine I was filled with great anxiety about leaving Ruby with my angel of a mother-in-law.
The other reason I was anxious about date night and Karl’s holiday party was the wardrobe issue. Normally when I go out for date night, I delight in wearing most excellent clothes. Periodically taking pride in one’s appearance is healthy. I didn’t worry that my post-pregnant body wasn’t going to fit in to my beloved skinny jeans. Hold it right there, I’m about to drop a major “boom” on y’all right here and right now…my beloved skinny jeans…they’re maternity skinny jeans. That’s right, they are skinny in all the right places with that fabulous elastic waist that hugs my little (big) muffin top in all the right ways. So yeah, I was looking forward to wearing some skinny-like pants, a gossamer kissed grey blouse from Top Shop, and of course my redonkulously uncomfortable and sassy silver sparkle shoes that I have owned for 2 years and have worn a total of 3 times thus far. I was going to own this date night (and holiday party). The only problem was that Karl’s holiday party was not “NYC Sex in the City Chic” themed, it was “rave” themed. Let me say it again in case you missed it: rave themed. You know what I’m talking about. Fluorescent clothing, furry boots, glow sticks. Woof.
Since I am such a busy stay at home mom I asked my husband to head on over to Old Gold and pick me up a costume for this party. Now that was my first problem. Who the h*ll let’s their husband pick out their clothes? He returns home at 5:30pm (the party starts at 6pm), holding a fluorescent green wig, green tights, a feather boa, and a Rainbow Brite multi-colored tutu. When you’re staring at this hot mess of clothing you gotta make a game time decision: you can either cry or suck it up and have fun. Did I mention this was our first date night in months? So yeah, I was a little anxious about wearing this. So what if I looked like a complete tart straight out of burning man in front of my husband’s coworkers? Sigh.
The party was a success, and I took comfort in the fact that other folks were also just as absurdly dressed as I. And I actually danced my little tutu’d butt off. Success. As far as the babe goes, she took about 2 ounces of milk from the bottle for my mother in law and then cried (but only for a little bit). Semi-success. Next date night I’m planning the evening and I’m definitely not letting my husband pick out my clothes.
Post script: I am keenly aware of how lucky I am to have been able to go out on Friday night and then return home to snuggle my two sleeping children while other parents in CT were suffering. The terrible tragedy in CT is yet another reminder to savor every day with your children and spouse , and family for that matter. It’s often too easy to get caught-up in the imperfections of daily life rather than the stuff that really counts.