Last night, Ben and I had our first night out alone in….I don’t know, a year?
It was lovely.
Although we didn’t make it out of the house until after 8 p.m. and although date night involved farming out the children to two different locations an hour apart, and although we both started yawning the instant we headed to dinner, it was worth it.
There was dressing up and cheap Mexican food and walking hand-in-hand and maybe one of these:
As those of us who are parents all know, it really is so nice to just be out alone once in a while. To transform that person-you-are-so-mad-at-for-leaving-their-dirty-nasty-socks-on-the-floor-again to that cool, handsome man you married.
We went to dinner at one of the few dining establishments in our hometown, which happened to be the site of our first date, now repurposed as a Mexican restaurant, which makes me feel simultaneously nostalgic and sad. I can’t believe we are old enough to have seen the coming-and-going of a piece of our history like that.
We sat in a corner booth, the only people in the restaurant and ate ridiculously over-sized burritos and I got ridiculously tipsy off two sips of my margarita. Apparently, that sort of thing happens when you are pregnant 30 out of the past 48 months of your life. I really, really wanted to eat the incredible caramel fried ice cream that they have there, (seriously, have you ever had that?!) but sadly and unprecedented, I had reached my limit.
So we walked around the dead downtown for awhile instead, until I had regained my appetite and we went out for ice cream. One reason we get along so well? We both really, really like food.
But by far, my most favorite part of the date was when we got home and I changed into my standard outfit of yoga pants and a zip-down sweatshirt and we dragged a bunch of old blankets and pillows outside (I knew I would use that ol’ body pillow again) onto the deck.
Snuggling down under the blankets in the cool night air, we did a little of this:
Under the vast night sky, we counted shooting stars and shared a few kisses and I talked while Ben tried not to fall asleep–about the insecurities I shared in yesterday’s post and my fears about writing my book and the fact I struggle with trusting that God even cares about such small things as my book when there are mothers like Lauren, whose daughter’s life was cut so brutally short, and babies like Cordelia, who are fighting for their lives. It’s one of the biggest things I falter with in my faith–how on earth can I have the audacity to ask God for something so insignificant as my job or losing weight or helping me be patient when my two-year-old poops her pants when there is such real pain and loss and suffering in the world?
How can my small, little life matter to God? I feel guilty for things like looking forward to my morning coffee or hoping the baby will nap so I can write a blog post or wishing I could write full-time. What does any of that matter when people’s babies are dying?
I don’t know the answers to my questions. I know I will continue to struggle with them on a daily basis. I know I will be afraid and insecure and feel ugly and lose my patience and yell at my kids and feel bad and wonder what any of this all means.
But once in a while…
It’s just nice to snuggle with someone you love under the stars.