This post was first published on June 27, 2011, and it’s every bit as true as it was then. In fact, it’s been good for me to reread it.
I admit: It was a glorious, beautiful thing we had going on in Austin. We lived near grandparents for the first time in years, and they knew as well as we did that it wouldn’t last forever. Because of this, they were willing to watch the kids regularly so that Kyle and I could have Date Nights.
Oh, so sacrificial were they as they spent time spraying the kids with the backyard water hose, making more cupcakes than any one family could possibly eat, sewing purses and doll dresses, and watching Saturday morning cartoons. Woe to them that they got to feed our kids things they never get to eat with Boring Ol’ Parents, and that they ate up story time, funny one-liners, and slobbery kisses.
It was rough for the grandparents.
Yep, they watched our three kids every other Friday night for more than a year. Well, it was two kids at first, but then Finn came along. And once he started sleeping through the night, he joined his big brother and sister and got to spend the night at Hot Rod and Nana’s.
That’s right. We picked up the kids by lunchtime Saturday. Glorious, indeed.
But we’re no strangers to Date Nights. We enjoyed them years ago, when it was just Tate and my parents watched her, and then later when we lived in the Middle East, we tag-teamed with neighbors as we watched each other’s kids. Every Thursday, we’d switch off — one family would watch all the kids while the other couple went on a date; the roles would switch the following week.
Date Nights are essential to our marriage and our sanity.