Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, in a time known as B.T. (before Tori), Friday night was date night.
I’d come home from work, redo my hair, fix my makeup, put something pretty on, and out we’d go. Dinner at a restaurant was mandatory – but the fanciness of said eating establishment depended upon our budget. Sometimes it was cloth napkins and (semi) expensive wine…but more often, it was bar food and beer (well, I had beer. my hubby doesn’t drink much).
Then, more often than not, we’d find something else to do. Stop in at a local bar, go down to the lake and watch the boats, or head to the bookstore (my favorite activity). Whatever it was, we made a night of it. It was lovely.
Well, we still refuse to cook our dinner. But instead of going out, we get takeout. And, generally speaking, we have to reheat it, because as soon as we sit down, Tori decides to fuss. And then she needs a diaper change. And then she needs to eat. And then…well, you get the picture.
Our after dinner activities generally include walking the dog, feeding Tori again, changing some more diapers, playing with Tori, and of course, ooohing and ahhing over how dang cute she is.
Then I put her to bed, Brian goes on the computer upstairs, and I turn on my laptop to talk to you, my dear readers.
Then, eventually, we collapse together on the couch, serenading each other with our snores. It’s a different kind of life, that’s for sure. But as much as I miss our old freedom, I wouldn’t trade the driving force behind this new kind of date night for all the fancy restaurants in the world.