I have been sifting through The Compost Pile, my personal blog. It was started a month before Composting the Heart back in 2013 and was private. It was a kind place, growing in me the courage to write and find my voice.
The other night a friend posted a facebook question asking if you do or don’t clean before a babysitter comes over. I included a lengthy response with my no vote, which brought to mind this post on date night, in general, with a nod to the messy house thing tossed in.
Can you find it?
Date night again! Shattered nerves? Knotted stomach? What is this? Anticipation? Sort of. The kind of which well-orchestrated plans are made.
There are so many steps to think through . . . securing a sitter, keeping track of where everyone will be, leaving an understandable plan, having someone else in our home. Deep into our home. In the bowels of the mess. I struggle to let that one go.
Always the transition from here to gone threatens to derail me. I am learning to let go, but it is a process, and once in the car, an entirely new inner conflict ensues.
What do we do? How do I relax, enjoy, and have fun without focusing on tasks and to-dos? How are we real with each other?
I learned early on that throwing a pile of money at a nice restaurant or movie and calling it a date didn’t ensure fun and connection. Many evenings ended in disillusionment and disappointment. I spent money for THIS? We could have stayed home and fought for FREE!
And date night seasons . . . sometimes we could afford to pay a sitter and go out of the house for time alone. Others were spent at home watching a movie or sitting on the porch together after kids were in bed. Always with a bottle of wine or a martini. Often with popcorn.So LAST NIGHT was a pleasant surprise when our dance-class-with-friends date came together. Awesome sitter, unexpected dinner alone with Steve beforehand (with happy-hour priced beer for him and wine for me), followed by a fun dance lesson. Redemptive success!
Upon entering the studio, I realized the last time we attempted to take a dance class, one of our babies (let’s assume it was Mae but might have been Roo) was a newborn in a bucket. And even though it was infant 7 or 8, I was STILL delusional enough to think she would stay sleeping through the class and NOT want to get out just as I was beginning to relax and have fun dancing.
Yes, we had to leave, and yes, I was convinced that I would NEVER be able to just relax and have fun and enjoy a dance class EVER AGAIN. There may have been angry tears.
Last night I smiled and laughed and danced and grimaced and followed (somewhat) and sugarpushed and spun and enjoyed being out with the love of my life.