Last weekend my wife and I went on a date night. I can’t remember when the last time we did one, honestly. Either because my memory is that wrecked these days, or it was so long ago that it’s hard to see past the mental cobwebs. Probably both. Make that definitely both.

During the day, we did a playdate at the beach and the two youngsters didn’t want to fun to end, so the friend’s parents offered to take our son with them to dinner so we could go out together, just us. After our initial pleasant surprise, my wife and I started talking about what we wanted to do. It was pretty sad really. Pathetic even. We were so rusty, we were drawing a blank on where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do.

When we did finally decide on a place, we had some yummy, digestion-challenging food, ordering a variety of appetizers rather than meals, and had some adult beverages to celebrate our parental emancipation.

We agreed I would drive, so my wife took the opportunity to have a little more than she usually does. She’s a absolute lightweight, so she was a bit giggly after a glass and a half of white wine.

It was adorable seeing her a little tipsy. She was so astonished at herself, and kept asking me if she was slurring her speech or acting like a hobo at an open bar. I kept laughing and reassuring her she was not, in fact, loaded, blotto, three sheets to the wind, or anything remotely close to shitfaced.

It was a whole lot of fun, and very funny, to see us acting like just two adults, for a change, instead of two parents.

We knew we needed to do this again. Soon! Making moments for self rediscovery together. As much as we love our son, it was unnerving to see how we’d let our own selves get buried so deep in all the responsibilities and duties of parenthood, and how we had to dig out of it to find ourselves for a night.

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