Date night, post kids

I'm finally well enough that we felt safe to book the babysitter Friday night, so that we could go out, as a couple, on a civilized date.

We brushed our teeth, spruced ourselves up a little, and decided to eat dinner at a nice restaurant nearby that just opened. We sat in the gimmick seats: a dining bar on a pass-through into the kitchen. We watched the clang and clatter of food prep, held hands, ordered drinks, flirted. We bantered with the staff, laughed, nuzzled each other like newlyweds. It was an eventful week and we had lots of catching up to do. Pynchon had an interview for a FULL TIME! PERMANENT! GOOD JOB! ON CAMPUS! so that was something to rehash. As for me, I had six and a half hours of high-impact meetings on Friday, with lots of news to share. We jabbered about work, and potential work, and stuff in the news, and things we'd been thinking about excitedly while clutching at each others' fingers and cooing.

As we giggled and oohed (somewhat obnoxiously) through dessert, our (somewhat obsequious) waiter slid up close and noted conspiratorially, "I guess you guys would like the cheque, because it looks like you're in a hurry to get home" (nudge, nudge).

It's almost like we could hear that sound effect of the record needle dragged across the interrupted conversation. SCREEE!

We looked at him, in bon's words, like he was speaking Swahili.

I blinked. Considered. Replied, aghast: "Oh, GOD, no. The BABY'S at home."

Now that we have kids, if we're having a flirty, sexy, fun, grownup time on a date? The last thing we want to do is go home. Parenthood. It really is the great divide.