They don't happen often. Nights without kids.
We don't go on dates. Usually.
We don't steal away for the weekend. Usually.
Most of the time, we are all together. Sharing the same space and time and air.
And, most of the time, that is good. We have chosen that reality, again and again, and it is what helps shape us as a family. All of the ways that we move and live and breathe together, well, they ooze and squeeze and flow into something bigger than ourselves. That's the way that it should be.
But then along comes a night when both of our boys are invited to a double-brother sleep-over and I find myself grinning because I can make chicken chilaquiles and gin and tonics for two and I laugh out loud because, for once, there is not a dish of plain pasta in sight. And then you walk through the door and I'm smiling and pulling you close because there is no competition and I have you all to myself. It doesn't matter that I haven't put the sheets back on the bed yet and Yes, this is happening, and my, how I have forgotten the beauty of you without distraction.
We take our dinner upstairs and eat in front of the Olympics and we don't worry about the stain of red tomatoes or saying "please" and "thank you" because we are already messy and we have each other and that is just one great big "Please and Thank You" wrapped up in one. We marvel at the inane commentators and I find you incredibly funny and I laugh louder and more freely than I have in a long, long time. It is not often that we get to experience each other unfettered...to give to each other this incredible lightness of being.
And I know that we haven't gone anywhere and that this wasn't a planned formal event with fancy clothes and makeup and uncomfortable shoes but I still know that this...This...is important. You and me with nothing in between, this is good. Very good.