Originally published in New York Post, June 5, 2000.
My husband and I have forgotten how to date. With three kids under six, spending quality time alone means sitting on the couch with the latest Hollywood epic (panned and scanned and formatted to fit our TV screen) and a couple of tubs of Ben and Jerry's. Actually going out is alien territory.
For my birthday, my sister offered us the chance to go out to dinner, alone, together, to a restaurant, the kind where you make reservations and wear real shoes and makeup (me, not my husband). I couldn't bring myself to make the reservation for any later than 7PM. After years of 6 o'clock dinners with the kids, my husband and I both get cranky if we don't eat early.
My sister arrived at 6:45 and I was happy to relinquish my over-excited brood. I told her what to feed them and to try to stick to their regular 8:00 bedtime. My sister shooed me away and ducked into the kitchen with the kids. There was much whispering and giggling and sounds of food preparation. Seasoned reporter that I am, I surmised there was some frantic last minute birthday cake activity going on. They seemed to be baking it from scratch. Obviously the plan was for the kids to "surprise" me with the cake. But when? Seems my sister had not completely thought this plan out.
"So...you want us to come home while the kids are still awake?" I asked her.
"No, no, of course not. Go, have a great time." Then it hit her. "Oh, wait. Yes. Well -- either you have to come home early for cake or I have to keep the kids up late."
Her plan was growing more irritating by the second. "Okay. We're going out for dinner and you're going to keep the kids up late and pump them full of chocolate right before bed?"
"Hmm. Right. Okay, when do you have to be at the restaurant? In ten minutes? Hey, kids, come in the kitchen!"
There was much emergency cake decorating while my husband paced impatiently. "If I'm not sitting in front of a meal in the next twenty minutes I'm going to get a migraine!" he offered helpfully.
Finally, the cake emerged, "Happy Birthday" was hastily sung and we were out the door.
Moments later we were at the restaurant. We got our menus and I started to read the entrees and comment on them and look around at other tables and say how good everything looked and how I didn't know what to choose.
"Fifteen minutes to migraine," my date grumbled. The place was quiet midweek and the wait staff seemed to be hanging back, apparently not wanting to bother us so we could enjoy a nice conversation. They didn't know us very well.
We started to talk about our daughter's upcoming birthday. I said she wanted to have her friends over for games and cake in the backyard.
"We'd better get some more lawn furniture before that party."
"It's just kids. They can have a picnic on blankets."
"What about the parents?"
"It's just a drop-off party. Parents aren't staying."
"Well, I just don't think we have enough lawn furniture for this sort of thing."
"Whatever," I sighed.
"Where the hell is the waitress?" he muttered.
When you don't get out much, you forget how to pace yourself. The food arrived and my husband and I engaged in a hurried frenzy of gastronomic overindulgence. It was not a pretty sight.
Ten minutes later we were really stuffed. It was now 8:15. We decided to go somewhere else for coffee, just to make a real evening of it. But on the way my husband said, "Oh, let's just go home. I miss the kids."
When we got home, the kids were in bed but not asleep and all hell broke loose because we spoiled their fun with their aunt and why were we home so early?
I drove my sister to the train and thanked her, telling her we'd do better next time. A newlywed herself, she shook her head over what's become of my husband and me. "There's chocolate cake in the fridge," she said.
I went home and my date and I ate cake in front of the TV and went to bed early.
