Last night grandma came over and the hubs and I went on a date for our anniversary. It was lovely. Of course, things have changed now: we ate dinner at five p.m. when the restaurant opened, just like fuddy-duddies who show up for the early-bird special on steak nite, and I got drunk from one cocktail (boy is THAT different--cheap date is right!) but it was sweet and fun and strange to not have the nipper in tow. I said, "Even if we just sit here talking about him the whole time, he's not here!" My husband just kept pointing at his arm, where the tot was not draped in his "drooling-tiger-in-a-tree" pose, and his arm was slobber-free for the first time in weeks. We actually finished dinner at 6:15, and I noted that it was a pretty pathetic date if we went home in under an hour. So we grabbed dessert.
The hubs and I had been absurdly dedicated to eating out all the time before the bun was born, but now, obviously, things are different. These days when we eat out we've always got a companion that we pass back and forth in the "baby relay." And we realized that though we've eaten out so many times together, this one was special because it was an infrequent event. If you drink champagne and eat caviar every day, it becomes dull--but if you wait, it becomes magic again.
This kid is giving us all sorts of things. Like date-night. Who knew? In a completely unrelated note, chapter 2 of the "Night of Lurve" is going up. Damn. I might never finish it. I can't write in one long uninterrupted stint, and of course didn't think of this before I had the stupid idea of recounting our first meeting. What was a sweet little offering for ma mayun has become a bit more involved. Sometimes I'm a dumbass.