Alongside the family calendar in my kitchen is a dry-erase board where I keep what I think of as my brain spew, or a shorthand assortment of all the stuff I expect to forget unless I write it down. Other people might choose a private place to keep such an inventory, like in a file on their smartphone, or on a piece of paper in a drawer. But I like to be able to access mine with a glance, even if everyone else who’s ever come over to our house can, too. I can look up right now, for instance, and glimpse reminders to watch The King’s Speech (came out in 2010), somehow “fix” our backyard (there is no firm plan here) and ask the allergist about the possibility of a freak butternut-squash allergy or whether my son’s consistent post-squash vomit is maybe just a texture thing (shorthand: “squash??!”).
On some of the glimpses I read the reminder, “Date Night,” and it is my guiltiest glimpse, because it’s been almost a year since we’ve had a date night. It’s a complete waste, because we have a great sitter. Sienna takes better care of my children than I do. She’s not overpriced. She’s a vegetarian ballerina who also speaks five languages, and we all become improved people just breathing her oxygen.
But there’s always a reason not to schedule a date night, usually centering on somebody’s sleep. The baby’s not sleeping. I haven’t been sleeping. My husband, a student, is averaging five hours a night. One bleary-eyed, 8 p.m. bedtime slips into the next, and Sienna’s number slides further down my recent-calls log.
When we do have date nights, I can’t decide whether they’re a sign of a healthy marriage or an unhealthy one. Whether our relationship’s so high-maintenance it requires time carved out just for it, or its passion so irrepressible there’s no holding it back, from 7-10 p.m. on alternating Fridays.
I’m tired. I’m negative. I can’t get a date and there’s no clear reason why.
My husband and I, we used to be so good at dating. We used to be so good we didn’t even call it dating or anything else. They were just times when we went out to places because that was our life. Not just restaurants! We went to friends’ houses, to plays. We trained for a half-marathon. We trudged through 2010’s Snowmageddon for groceries and brought the groceries back with us. Were we to leave the children at home, any one of those things now would be classified as a date.
After our first baby was born, a family member took me aside and told me to be sure and make time for ourselves. I told him we were pretty good at eating food at restaurants and that he didn’t have to worry.
Two years later, we had our daughter. As a baby, she didn’t like being left with a sitter, but we managed by going out after she’d fallen asleep. We would leave the house at 7, then start to relax around 8, after getting a text confirming that both kids were asleep. By 9:45 we’d be back home early, fearing late fees and a night containing fewer than six hours of sleep. It was relaxing, except for most of the time when it wasn’t.
Now we have three children. Leaving all of them in the care of a single, nonfamilial adult strikes me as borderline lunacy. I haven’t asked anyone to do it, not even Sienna. I’m afraid if I do she’ll laugh at me, or quote me a rate worth more than my left kidney.
In passing, my husband recently mentioned to me that when we finally do get around to scheduling our next date, he doesn’t want to go out to eat. He said he would rather spend the time doing something other than consuming too much food that’s not good for you anyway. I told him I didn’t see the problem. At our going rate we’ll get a night out again in our next lives, at which point I’ll be ready to train for my next half-marathon.
Here’s what I propose in the interim: We check whether we still have an active Netflix account. Designate two consecutive nights for watching The King’s Speech. Actively ignore all remaining brain spew, including every unattractive thing about the backyard.
Make the kids send Sienna Valentine’s Day cards, to let her know that we still love her and miss her, desperately, or whatever they want to say.
Watch The King’s Speech. Eat food that’s bad for us. Cut ourselves some slack. Call it a date. Call it a night.
Susan Anspach is a product of Northern Virginia’s schools, swim teams and cultural mores. Her son’s squash test at the allergist’s came back negative.
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