No Date Nights Allowed and What One Wife Did About It

I love quality time. Thrive on it, in fact.

I'd love a monthly date night with my husband.

But he doesn't. In fact, he's a self proclaimed “I-don't-date-my-wife”-er.

There came the day when I realized I had two options in this layout. I could get all “poor me” about it, thinking things like “he doesn't love me” or “he doesn't find me worth his time” and all the other things us women are prone to think.

OR, I could put on my big girl undies, and realize he loves me in ways only he can love me, and if that means one date night in six years, then that means one date night in six years. 

That one wasn't so grand and romantic anyway, considering the lady at the table next to us had a heart attack. That'll put a damper on just about anything.

Back to my two options.

If you've been a woman for any amount of time, you already know I went through option one.

It wasn't ideal.

I felt horrible for “not being enough”. My attitude made him feel horrible for not being a romantic prince charming who turns zucchini into Lamborghini, and whisks me off into the sunset.

Like I said, it just wasn't ideal.

So, I chose to hitch up those big girl undies, and find other ways to indulge my need. This is what I did.

I spent 6 hours preparing a rack of ribs, mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, salad, homemade buns with strawberry jam...the whole nine yards. There was ice cream, cherry pie and coffee for dessert. I got out the fine china, not touched since our wedding, my most prized tablecloth, and the wine glasses to serve a delectable punch.

I added a pair of long stem candles and bam! all was set.

Our two kids were put to bed early, and I expected a grand evening with my number one.

The timer went off. All was ready to present to my husband. I was prepared to blow his socks off!

One glitch. The oven had decided to take on a mind of it's own some time back, and was baking at half the desired temperature. The ribs wouldn't be ready for another 2 hours and it was already 8pm.

I was devastated. Totally deflated.

What a flop!

I had a hungry man on my hands and all he wanted was food.

So, we ate.

In candle light. On fine china. Without the ribs. In awkward silence.

My husband somehow found the humor in all this and smiled. It was a teensy little smile, which he tried to disguise by taking another bite, but I saw it.

How dare he smile!

I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

They spilled onto my napkin in silence.

We continued eating in silence.

He smiled some more.

In silence.

Now, please understand, it wasn't a mean smile. It was a gentle “It's OK, hun.” kind of smile.

But to me, he still smiled and this was no smiling matter.

Oh! In case you're wondering about his socks....they stayed on his feet.

We went to bed. He held me quietly while I cried some more. Every once on a while I could feel him smile again. 

And I'd cry a few more tears. 

Fast forward to the next evening.

In an effort to make up for the night before, I served his favorite meal: homemade pizza with cookies-n-cream ice cream.

As I was preparing the meal, which, by the way, took a measly 1 hour compared to last nights 6, I saw those long stem candles.

They seemed to mock me, daring me try it again.

So, as not to admit defeat, I did.

I got out the china. Set four places instead of two.

I got out the beautiful table cloth and the wine glasses. The leftover punch didn't have anymore fizz in it, but I decided to serve it anyway.

He came home on time, 10 minutes before the pizza was done. Just long enough for him to cuddle his giggling 1 & 2 year old daughters.

Then we ate our dinner.

His favorite meal. In candlelight. The sun streaming through the window. We sipped our fizz-less punch, the kids jabbering in excitement, trying to blow out the candles.

Punch got spilled from sippy cups, pizza sauce and ice cream got smeared across hands, faces and tablecloth, someone choked on meat and the other tipped a candle into the pizza.

Again, my husband got fed. Again, his socks stayed on. Again, he smiled.

And it was OK for him to do that this time.

Because THIS TIME held the quality I was looking for.

Since then, every time I'm needing a little quality time we have a pizza in candlelight dinner with the whole family.

Every single time, he smiles.

Every single time, so do I.

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