Date Night!

 

  "Hey, guess what?," my six year-old daughter hollered, "My Mom and Dad are going on a DATE!!" 

The eyebrows of the visiting neighborhood girls shot up as they responded, "Wow, that's great!," before turning to me with twinkling eyes.  "Yeah," I responded with a lackluster grin.  My husband had just asked me to join him for wings at the corner pub and I was tired but determined to see this through as I had turned down his last three "30 cent wing night" invites.  When I whispered "Daddy and I are going on a date," to my youngest it was more with the incentive of hurrying her through her nighttime routine of jammies, teeth brushing, prayers, and story time.  She took my announcement as the epitome of every princess and prince story time and...well...ran with it- straight to my closet to pick out the fanciest of fancies for me to wear on our "date."

Fancy!

  I kid you not, my pipsqueak, little blondie was starry eyed as she dove into the array of coat hangers and literally held up sequins and ruffles.  I countered with comfy hopefuls of denim capris and t-shirts.  She developed a system of giving me thumbs half-way up or even thumbs down.  At one point her thumbs down was so vehement that I asked if I should donate the colorful tank I halfheartedly held up.  She responded, "nah, you don't have to get rid of it...I might grow used to it...one day."  Aaand, into the donate bag it went.



  Disappointed but willing to accept my desire for comfort over pizazz, she ultimately gave a half-hearted, midway thumb-up and shook her head sadly as she agreed to my extremely bland "date" attire.  Eager to move on, she exclaimed, "Ok Mom, time for make-up!"  With lightning speed she located and pulled out that one tube of bright RED lipstick that must have pulled at my sentimental heart-strings enough to hide it out of sight instead of discarding it during the removal of all 17 pieces of Wal-mart's holiday deluxe make-up gift set.  By this point, even knowing I'd severely decimated every romantic notion once whispered into "happily ever after" stories, I could only stare blankly at that tiny hand waving her red, waxy magic toward my lips.

  "Ummmm...how bout we try something that matches a bit more?," I weakly offered.  She could deal with options, "Sure Mom, show me what you got!"  "Wellll...," I tried to buy time as I rummaged around and came up with two safe choices.  I bravely held out #550 SAND in one hand and with a flourish attempted to impress her with No-name option 2 which could have been named SAND with a mere hint of glimmer.  Her obvious lack of enthusiasm was immediately on display as she lowered her eyelids halfway to convey her boredom and asked, "So...they're the same?"


BOOOORING!

  This night was destined to be a teacher from the get-go...I can barely admit that I had attempted to reward my sixteen year-old son's hard work at the house by inviting him to come with us.  To say my husband lacked enthusiasm with eyelids half lowered would be a gross understatement.  He was looking forward to "date-night" as well.  Turns out all this effort was to open my tired eyes to see how deep I had dug into the trenches of Mommy-hood.  In the end, well- actually before we began, we were asked to leave the wing establishment because of our son's age.  We had no idea they had recently changed their rules to prevent anyone under 21 to be seated after 9 p.m- even at the outside patio that had drawn us on previous summer nights.

    Ironically, my six-year old daughter was my "wing-man" that night...having my back and giving me a lot to think about in terms of dating my husband. 

  All's well that ends well.  On my next invite to date-night you can bet I found a happy medium somewhere between sequins and denim...and even broke out the curling iron and brighter pallets that left SAND in the dust.  My husband and I eventually enjoyed a night out, held hands, giggled at brave karaoke participants, and reveled in that sweet feeling of 17 years and going strong.  Casual or frilly, I'm looking forward to dating my hubby for years to come!

 

GLAMOUR-ish...

  I've learned a thing or two about style and chic "expression of self" with clothing.  Pretty much that thing or two I've learned boils down to one fact: that style and chic-ness have no place in my current lifestyle.  Now wait, all of you jumping to the conclusion that I'm a fan of the "letting myself go" ensemble---this simply is not so.  I have merely learned that as a mother of seven it is, ummmmm...impractical shall we say, to shop with a mother of one child who is over the age of seven and listen to her advice on what is "cute and sassy."

  One example of my sister's (did I just nark on her?...oh YES I DID!) fashionista advice is when she held up a royal purple (jewel tones were ALL the rage of the season) tank top with GLAMOUR emblazoned across the chest in rhinestones.  "Oh Sus," she gushed, "this is soooo cute!  You could totally dress this up or wear it casual.  You have to get this!"  I could see the red-carpet version of me sashaying up to all of my Cosmopolitan friends (other Mom's with humongous vans and enormous grocery lists) in this sparkly top.  Yes!  This jewel of a shirt was created for me...I must own this glamorous tank!  And so I did.  Yes sir, I whipped out my credit card and purchased my very own slice of Vogue!  I am woman...hear me roar...or at least watch me glitter!

  One month and a few errant attempts at dressing up my high-fashion tank later, I was sitting on our back deck while wearing my precious purchase in the high noon sun.  I was sweltering in the summer heat while watching my kids ride bikes, run their Popsicle sugar-high off , and have no-nap melt-downs (Warning: this type of melt-down is enough to make a grown man cry...ask my husband .)  I could feel the perspiration beading on my nose while my bangs had slowly become plastered to my forehead.  I was irritable, tired from chasing children and putting out argumentative fires.  I hung my head to shield my face from the cruel solar-rays unhindered by my shadeless yard.  It must have been the 100 watt glare of reflected sunshine off my classy rhinestones that drew my attention to the irony of my un-ironed shirt...GLAMOUR.  My shoulders slumped and then slowly began to shake from my laughter as I thought, "Oh yeah baby- I'm livin' the high life!  Especially with that particular smattering of baby food on my midsection:
 I  WAS:  G L A M O U R O U S!!!"

  I went in and changed my shirt and thought "That does it!  It is time to trust myself.  I will no longer listen to the voice that tells me a Hawaiian print tankini is a good fit for my annual Cook Forest tube down the river!"  I probably should have had the foresight to guess that I would be catapulted from my tube by a rapid which would have the tankini (which should have been a TANK-MUMU!) top exposing my  midsection, which is never pretty when bordered by Hawaii's tropical flowers in bright reds with puce colored leaves...I know...I should have known.  No, I will not bow to the pressure that black patent-leather shoes with three inch heels and chains across the top are not only fashionable to wear at the mall, but will also be a good staple for "nights out."  I truly felt my toes were being stabbed by staples during one date night...which tragically ended up with hubby and I strolling the local aisles at Wegman's grocery market...eventually with me in my bare feet.  And who wants to wear heels while pushing a double stroller and wearing a baby in a sling? Not me...not anymore.

  Sorry, sis, I can no longer deny my favorite athletic shoe aisle.  I won't cower in shame when you leap out from behind the track-suit rack and shout, "A-ha!"  I WILL own my non-Cosmo, must-be-comfy, stretchy due to the slightest bit of spandex, cotton fabric with a powerful sigh of relief!  And maybe...just maybe...I will slip that Glamour tank on under my sweatshirt just to remember what was...and giggle at the contrast to what has become of my life-STYLE ;)