Death of Date Night

It’s Sunday night, 10pm and I’m in bed, wide awake and scanning the photos from the weekend to trigger any memories of the past 48 hours. This isn’t due to a hangover, not even baby brain, sadly I just have an utterly shite memory! 

What I do know is that the Bearded One is performing his loudest wildebeest call having gone to bed at 8.55pm after I downed 2 bottles of lucosade in readiness for our “last indulgent evening” before the health kick tomorrow. 

I can’t even hit him in the back to get him to stop snoring because earlier we were convinced he was having a heart attack. My only response is “don’t you dare die before that divorce comes through!” (his not ours!) Sanity kicked in and we decided he may have eaten the pork scratchings too quickly and given himself indigestion. 

So as I said… here I am… 10pm and wide awake laying in bed. The novelty of being the last one up wore off immediately and for whatever reason I felt incredibly anxious about sitting up husband and baby-less. I needed to be near The Bearded One even if he’s howling at the moon with snores. He has always been an avid sleep talker and during the first few months of living together it was a real adjustment. When it happens he is incredibly coherent so it’s very hard to tell if he’s actually awake. One conversation lasted about 2 minutes before he asked me if I wanted a BMX for Christmas. It was June. I was 29. 

As I get into bed and snuggle in for warmth I’m told “you don’t care about me”, followed by a snore. Safe to say he’s asleep. 

Thinking back on the day it started amazingly well, The Bearded One got up and fed The Baby so I could sleep having fallen ill for the 100th time this month with the awful cold the kids have. 

I was so delighted and ill at the same time that I couldn’t go back to sleep. I worried in case The Baby kicked off, I felt guilty for not being awake (even though from 2-5am I held him on my chest and rocked him to help his breathing). Then I spotted the change bag on the floor of our bedroom. Knowing this would be needed I gave up and got up. 

The day before we surprised The Bearded One with a little party. The Oldest One, The Baby and I went shopping for food, balloons and banners. Once home we started the mammoth task of “cooking” all the party food. 25 mins at 190 – move over Martha Stewart. I put a spag bol in the slow cooker that morning with a slight sense of trepidation. I always add wine to the sauce (and myself usually) and as I’m scrambling around in the kitchen looking for a corkscrew clutching a bottle of Rioja at 8am on a Saturday morning I notice the next door neighbour staring through their kitchen window into ours. For a split second I consider swigging from the bottle and shouting “kids hey?” to diffuse the tension. I think better of it. I know they’ve seen our booze box out for recycling on a Sunday night – they might not get the joke. In fact I may just keep these birthday banners up annually and not worry about neighbourhood judgement again!

The party was a success until The Baby kicked off having slept for a total of 15 minutes throughout the day. At this point I took him upstairs to sit in the dark and drink my luke warm beer whilst rocking him to sleep. Having come downstairs I find the balloons have been swiftly popped with a knife when the sugar from the pink wafers kicked in. The atmosphere is frosty. The angry vein in the Bearded One’s head is throbbing.

Kids finally in bed and I actually managed to watch a whole film without falling asleep before going to bed myself with enough cold and flu paraphernalia to start my own chemist. 

So back to this morning, having had a pretty sleepless night and being too overwhelmed by the opportunity of a morning off to enjoy it I’m up and sorting out the kitchen, washing etc before heading up for a shower. 

Being best friends as well as spouses The Bearded One and I are in constant contact. Phone calls, text messages, notes, radioing through the baby monitor and good old fashioned conversation. We have however developed an unhealthy habit of texting each other when we’re on the loo. I personally love that we do this, I don’t know why.

So… whilst in the bathroom I receive a message suggesting breakfast at TGI Fridays. The logic being that the environment is ideal for a baby – a sensory heaven, bright lights and loud music. An adults sensory hell but if The Baby kicks off it won’t be as noticeable. 

The kids are delighted! Loading a screaming baby into the car and we’re off. It’s closed. Of course it is because WE ARE THE ONLY PEOPLE ON EARTH WHO ARE UP AT THIS TIME ON A SUNDAY!

Whilst The Bearded One is discovering this, the kids ask me if we can get the staff to acknowledge his birthday as they make a “really big deal” of it here. Without thinking of his reaction I agree, distracted with thoughts of bottle temperatures, falling snow and quite how ill I actually feel. 

Debating our options we decide against driving to the TGI Friday’s in Milton Keynes and instead opt for an American Restaurant called Coast to Coast. Seated in the corner with The Baby finally asleep the kids begin to order their sugar and carb based breakfasts. Pancakes with maple syrup, millionaire waffles with ice cream washed down with banana milkshakes and (randomly) a tomato juice. I can’t wait for that to kick in! 

Breakfast finished and the kids are gesturing to me to organise the singing. Taking The Oldest One off under the guise of her needing the toilet (with her saying loudly “that’s not what I said”) we hide behind a booth and request a cherry pie with candle to be sent to the corner table.

5 minutes later and the staff are walking over to a horrified birthday boy singing as he vows that revenge is a dish best served cold. Much like this cherry pie! The staff then tell him to “just blow it out” which has me in fits of laughter as the Bearded One is most offended. The children destroy the pie like piranhas saying to each other “let Daddy have some” whilst trying not to stab each other with their forks. 

Everyone finished and loaded into the car we manage to skip the sugar frenzy stage and go straight to the carbicide stage. Exhausted with full bellys to the point of popping seems to do the trick.

After an afternoon of fannying around sorting out a new tyre for the van which involved various “family trips” to Kwik Fit and it’s time to take the munchkins home. 

Still digesting breakfast they are all pretty subdued which makes the car journey far more bearable.

Dropping them off I’m on the home stretch. A quick booze and nibbles stop and I’m through the door at 5.45pm welcomed by The Bearded One spraying the anti bacterial spray around the room shouting “wait wait, don’t come in”.

Apparently there was a code brown explosion to the point that an outfit had to be thrown away and the NEW cushions needed to be cleaned. (I bought those yesterday and already they had had juice, feet and now shit spread all over them.)

Reassuring him that he’s done an amazing job and taking a moment to appreciate he had my pjs, slippers and a glass of wine waiting for me we settle in to enjoy the night.

The film had been on for less than 15 minutes when I notice The Bearded One is doing his sleep breathing. As I said it is 8.55pm. I suggest watching the film in bed to which he agrees, having sent him off I do the rounds. Switching lights off, letting the dog out etc. It’s been so long since I did the lock up routine I had to apply common sense to what needed doing. 

As I turn off the lights I can hear the dog snoring, going over to tuck him in I realise it’s coming through the baby monitor.


It is now 11.56pm – 2 blog entries later and I’m still wide awake. The Bearded One is still snoring. So is The Baby. 

So much for our date night! 

12.42am and I’m finally starting to tire just as The Baby starts to stir. I’m going to attempt to sleep… to the sound of a rhino mating call, after 2 bottles of lucosade, with a cold.

I am a fucking trooper! 


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