Date-night dilemma
As I type, I am mired in a very specific quandary. I have, through a feat of planning, guilt-tripping of mother and low-grade whinging, managed to do the impossible: I have secured childcare for both childer at the same time.
Thus far in my foray into parenting multiple humans, at no point have Himself and I been ‘free’ — as we call it in our house — at the same time. Since Baby the Sequel arrived on the scene, Himself has been free — a bit too free at times (there was a sick-in-a-glass incident) — many times.
He has “had to” go away for work, he “had to” attend some kind of pseudo-stag (no one’s getting married this year, so they all just agreed to ignore this fact and stage a stag anyway) and he has “had to” go along to many “quiet” nights out.
My movements have been somewhat more curtailed thanks to being the sole food source for little Sequel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no martyr to the boobing, and as soon as the baby would accept the bottle, I, too, was “free”. Well . . . ish. The one caveat of my freedom was a new unwieldy accessory: the pump. Unless I could reasonably cram enough fun into a three-hour window, Pump was my date.
I got a leather tote bag to cart Pump around with me. He had his own room at a friend’s wedding — I stuck a dicky bow on him for the occasion. He has attended several quite salubrious occasions, including the Irish Book Awards and the Magazine Awards. He’s even graced Pat Kenny’s dressing room at TV3 — sorry for that violation, Pat.
As I was making the plan for tonight’s date, I will admit that mine and Pump’s needs started to take precedent over Himself’s preferences and financial constraints. He wanted to go to a movie and then grab a burger in a delightful but fairly dingy burger joint. I, on the other hand, wanted upmarket, so as to be sure the toilets would be of a certain standard, given the fact that I would be spending at least two 20-minute stints in there, lactating alone with my thoughts and my real date, Pump.
The more Himself and I argued, the more I started to think how maybe Pump’s company isn’t that bad. After all, unlike Himself, he can be turned off and put away in a black leather shopper whenever he is annoying me.
As the day has worn on with no resolution about an activity, I am becoming less and less enamoured of spending time with Himself altogether. I’ve decided I’m going to get dressed up super fancy (because this is my favourite part of going out anyway) and then just go downstairs, where I may or may not bother speaking to my husband.
I will drink wine without the markup, gorge on this moreish home-made chocolate adapted from a recipe by Aileen Cox Blundell, and pump in comfort. I recognise that this date may be the very definition of peak married and I’m completely comfortable with that.