Date night

Recently we were in the fortunate position to have free babysitters for the evening. Quite a luxury if you are a newbie in a strange country and you can count your friends on half a hand.

As I was taking a 5 minute shower in preparation of a romantic dinner date with my husband, I reminisced about days gone by and how the “prep” has changed from before we had children to now.

To begin with: the 5 minute shower. This happens amidst some shouting and fighting happening somewhere in the house. While trying to determine whether the screams require intervention (i.e. a shout from me), I’m also trying to decide what is top priority in the beauty routine. Do I have time to wash my hair or not. To shave or not to shave? I decide to do the hair but ditch the shaving. A quick feel over my legs made me realise I am past the prickly stage, so my legs are still soft, albeit in a different way. Plus, it’s winter, no one will see.

Rewind 6 years and there would have been none of this 5 minute showering business. It would’ve been a complete ritual. The whole nine yards. Hair washed, face washed, scrubbed, masked. Then a lengthy bath to infuse me with some or other exotic smell advertised on the bottle. Legs shaved. Then would follow creams of all sorts. Face, body, feet, the whole works. Make-up carefully applied again, hair redone. At some stage earlier in the day I would’ve painted my nails or possibly even got a manicure.

Back in the present I jumped out the shower, don’t even dry off properly. I rush to break up the fight and are inundated with requests. One is thirsty, one is hungry. One is looking for Spiderman and the other one wants to do some painting. NOW! I say no and a volcano erupts in my kitchen. The volcano throws himself on the floor and continue to ask for some paint, in a slightly more forceful way. The other one is still hungry. He is oblivious to my attempts to calm the volcano. He wants food now. And why have I not found Spiderman yet?? I open the emergency cupboard and pull out a packet of biscuits for each of them. Peace follows soon thereafter. I switch on the TV and steal away to get dressed.

6 years ago the outfit would’ve been planned, I can guarantee you. Now it’s a question of how quickly I can throw on something that sort of go together and won’t land me in the “worst dressed” section of a magazine. Whether I am successful or not I can’t tell, my fashion sense don’t operate in times of high pressure. The biscuits are finished, the TV boring and I can hear trouble brewing again. I ignore it for as long as I can, quickly smear some make-up over my face, dry my hair and get back to the crisis centre. Spiderman has been found, but by the wrong brother. Now he won’t release and the other one won’t relent. He wanted it first, doesn’t matter who found it. Luckily daddy enters the picture at that moment. Just as good as a packet of biscuits. I don’t think I actually greet my husband apart from giving him a quick grateful glance.

It’s now 15 minutes before the babysitters are due to arrive. I throw the boys in the bath while I quickly try to clean up the chaos in the kitchen and lounge. They can’t know how dirty our house really is on a day-to-day basis. We need them to offer to look after the boys again, so impressions are everything. I also contemplate drugging the boys. If they go to bed easily, it might help too. But my guilt kicks in and I shelf that plan.

Back to the bath. In the process of getting the monsters cleaned up, I get splashed. More than once. Maybe wet clothes is fashionable in Australia? With dad’s help, the boys are clean and dressed in pyjama’s just as the angels arrive. They even come bearing gifts: Nando’s chips for supper. The boys immediately decide these people are the best thing since sliced bread and are happy to wave us goodbye.

I get into the car feeling as though I am leaving a war zone. For the first 5 minutes of the journey we don’t talk, we just stare into the distance, recovering. Then we arrive at the restaurant and it’s like an oasis in the desert. As far as the eye can see there are only adults. They talk in muted tones. No shouting. Soft music playing, candles on the table. Glorious food that I didn’t have to cook.

Rewind 6 years and a night out with my husband would’ve been a treat, sure. But nothing on this scale. Now I really appreciate the time, the ability to sit down and have uninterrupted conversation. So yes, I am sitting there, with unshaven legs (and the realisation that in my rush to get dressed I forgot to apply roll-on), my clothing still damp from bathing two monsters. But my heart is thankful. And date night is far more of a treat than what it was back in the day.

Now if only we could meet more babysitters…