My eldest child, Oliver, is now five years old. Until recently, the number of evenings my spouse, Mark, and I have spent on genuine dates parallels Oliver’s age. If you count on one hand, you might find yourself waving it or even giving someone a playful smack with that total of quality time.
Sure, we’ve had other outings. However, they weren’t “real” dates—those special evenings where we reserve a table at a restaurant that doesn’t use paper menus, share a bottle of wine, and enjoy the ambiance of flickering, non-electric candles. Instead, our dates often consisted of a couple of hours spent watching a matinee while my mother engaged in a quiet game of Sudoku on her iPad in the living room, all while the kids napped. We focused exclusively on Oscar-nominated films because anything less felt like a waste of precious time.
We also indulged in what we called “elegant lunches,” a concept that hardly exists. This was a trip to a lovely Italian or French restaurant, characterized by dim lighting and walls adorned with local art. We’d savor three courses and sip wine, pretending it was dinner. The downside of this arrangement is that eventually, we had to leave, and it was still only three in the afternoon. This meant returning to our parenting duties, making dinner, and reading bedtime stories when all we craved was a moment to collapse into bed.
Our limited dating life wasn’t due to a lack of effort but rather a series of circumstances. For the first two years of parenthood, actual dates were simply impossible. After arriving three months early, our fragile newborn son came home from a NICU stay with a tracheotomy, suction machine, and oxygen monitor. You can’t just hand over a medical setup to the neighborhood babysitter. During those early days, I often doubted my ability to care for him. What qualifications did I have, as a high school history teacher, to manage such medical needs? Yet, I adapted and became proficient at meeting his requirements. Reflecting on those few nights we did manage to escape, along with the sporadic afternoons spent together amidst the chaos of medical equipment, I feel a sense of pride.
When our son no longer needed the trach, two years into our journey, we finally ventured out on our first date. Grandma was more than capable of babysitting now that the monitors and tubes were tucked away. We found ourselves at a vineyard, indulging in too much wine while enjoying the ambiance of twinkling lights and live music.
Then came the surprise of twins. Even the most capable grandparent found it challenging to manage twin infants alongside an older brother who, while stable, was still not very mobile. At this point, Oliver didn’t yet have his wheelchair, and only I or his feeding therapist could help him eat. Instead of dates, Mark and I took long walks during the lulls between feedings and diaper changes. These strolls became a form of therapy, albeit not one that fostered our bond.
One evening, as we dined on the gourmet combination of peanut butter and jelly with Wheat Thins—whether it was 4 PM, 9 PM, or midnight, depending on the kids’ needs—Mark turned his head, and the light from the television revealed his now completely gray beard. When had that happened? It could have been yesterday or a year ago. I realized I hadn’t really looked at him in ages.
“Hey,” I nudged him with my foot from my spot on the couch. He responded with a muffled “hmmm?” through a mouthful of peanut butter. “We need to get out of this house. Just you and me. No kids. Dressed nicely. After dark. For at least two hours.” This wasn’t a groundbreaking revelation, but voicing it amidst the comedic backdrop of a TV show made it feel actionable. The kids were older now, and I felt sufficient experience in the special needs realm to understand the importance of maintaining our relationship. We hadn’t been dealt an easy hand, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t reshape it into what we desired.
I took to local networking, discreetly asking on Facebook if anyone could recommend a babysitter suited for our unique circumstances. It led me to discover an incredible teacher from our son’s inclusive preschool, named Sarah. She has become an invaluable resource, allowing us to escape into the night periodically.
Now, we’re managing to go out roughly once a month. Given that’s a significant leap from our previous annual average, I consider it a win. Just last week, we attended a wedding, which is the ideal date night—complimentary dinner, drinks, dancing, and cake. It had been a decade since I’d walked down the aisle, yet I danced harder and stayed longer than any other couple on the dance floor. We’ve earned it.
In conclusion, while our dating life may seem limited, the journey has taught us to value the moments we do get together. As we navigate parenting and its complexities, we also make a concerted effort to reconnect and enjoy each other’s company, even if it’s just a few hours at a time.
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