Recently J. and I instituted monthly date nights. It used to be that he and I got out together maybe twice a year. No, I’m not exaggerating. It’s a pathetic record, I know. 

But it’s difficult to find a sitter for a child with autism. You can’t just hire the teenager down the block who charges $5 an hour. You need a pro. Fortunately we have one; N. used to be H.’s speech therapist. She requires little in the way of instruction. She’s level-headed. She’s trustworthy. H. and F. dig her. So why did it take us so long to schedule these nights off?

Perhaps, like addicts, we had to hit rock-bottom before it became clear that we needed a break—before the tsunami that is “special needs parenting” (and parenting in general) threatened to overwhelm us, crash in a thunderous wave over our heads and fill our knickers with sea water and brine shrimp. (Mm, shrimp.)

So date nights it is.

What’s odd is that they actually do resemble dates in a way—maybe not as awkward as a first date, but definitely approaching the not-quite-comfortable second. Who IS this guy? I find myself thinking. He’s kind of cute.

Never mind that we’ve been together since the Clinton administration; I’m used to seeing him as the co-owner in our own little limited liability corporation, the holdings of which are two children, two elderly dogs, a house in constant need of cleaning and repair, and a (sleep) deficit that has us constantly in the red.

He’s not the guy who used to show up at my door with flowers; he’s the guy who cleans up if I cook, who folds and puts away when I wash, who takes one kid when I’ve got the other, and who spent the beautiful first weekend of summer cleaning out the garage. And seemed to enjoy it. (Didn’t we go on picnics once? With wine? Yeah, we did.)

It’s hard to maintain romance in the face of so much real life, but we are going to give our best shot. Once a month.