This post was most recently updated on May 18th, 2015

Well, I didn’t post an update to The Farm Mama yesterday like usual, but I swear I have a very good reason. *Insert anticipation-building musical intro*  … It was … Date Night! I know, I know – it was SUPER exciting for me, too! It was the first actual date night Sexy Hubby and I have had in about 14 years.  That’s coincidentally right about the time our first child was born.

Anyway, my true love asked me earlier in the week if we had anything going on Friday night.  When I said that I couldn’t think of anything, he said – real casual-like, “How’d you like to go out to dinner with me?”  I was so flabbergasted that I think I stuttered around a minute or two before finally responding in very sophisticated fashion, “You mean like alone? On a date?”  Truth is that we actually spend a lot of time together and we’ve even had a few little Mama/Daddy-type trips in the past 18 years.  But since our kids came along, our ‘dates’ consist of a rushed trip into town to get carryout pizza or over to the neighboring town’s farm store to put gas in the feed truck.  I’m not really complaining, because I enjoy doing everything with this man – even grocery shopping is fun when we’re together.  But the formality of him asking me out made this a special occasion.

We’ve been talking about the need for ‘date night’ forever, but it never seemed to work out.  We live about 10 miles out in the country so we’d have arrange for someone to drive all the way out to our house, feed and look after 4 kids and then drive all the way back to town.  Babysitting costs for date night would cost as much as, if not more than, whatever activity we planned.  Then we realized we already have a great babysitter.  He’s responsible, he can cook, the other kids love him and pretty much do what he tells them.  Naturally, I’m referring to our 14 year old son. Plus, he works cheap.  I can bribe him into doing pretty much whatever I ask with macaroni and cheese, duct tape or gum.  And even though he doesn’t have his actual license – in an emergency situation, he can drive.  Not legally – I would never condone that.  But in an apocalyptic crisis of some sort … well, he knows how, he’s quite safe and probably no one would  stop him because he’s 6’2″ and has a mustache …  But even though he said he’d do it for nothing, we decided that it was a good deal to pay him anyway.  He makes some extra cash, and we give him sufficient motivation to do a good job.

So we went to this new restaurant one town over, owned by some friends of ours. We’ve been hearing great things about it and wanted to check it out. It was fabulous!  I will never be able to order cheddar peppers from Sonic again, after tasting Myriam’s homemade jalapeno poppers! (But don’t worry Sonic – you still have my undying loyalty to your strawberry limeades.)  The portions were humongous … I could barely even eat half of my chicken fried steak.  We had some uninterrupted adult conversation, a wonderful meal that did not involve nuggets of any kind, and showed people that we do, in fact, get out of the house for fun once in a while.  Complete fabulousness.

There was one small snag that kept this from being a totally perfect date … Victim Bear.  Formally, she’s known as our 7 year old daughter.  But when she’s feeling persecuted, left out, slighted, wronged or wounded, she becomes a victim.  She sighs.  She flops onto furniture.  She whines pitifully.  Yesterday afternoon, she overheard a discussion between my husband and I about what time we would be leaving. (She’s also Nosy Bear.) She asked if Daddy was going to get food from town for supper.  I told her no – Daddy and Mama were going to The Bull Pen for supper … on a date. (She perked up at the mention of the restaurant name – her little friend’s parents are the owners and here, she thought, was a social opportunity.) She began to cry.  Not  noisy, hiccuping cries, but slow, giant tears of soul-wrenching anguish rolled down her tiny Bear cheeks.  Here’s the conversation that followed:

Me:  “What’s wrong, Bear?“
Bear:  “I don’t like staying at home all the time.”
Me:  “Well, you went to dance Monday night, to the eye doctor and Taco Mayo Tuesday, to the beauty shop Wednesday, you’re going to Easter at Rich’s Sunday, and dance again Monday.  I think that’s a pretty active social life for a 7 year old.“
Bear:  “I don’t like being left at home all the time.”
Me:  “What do you want, Bear?  Do you want to go with Daddy & I on our date?“
Bear:  *silent Bear stare*
Me:  “You seriously expect to go on my dinner date with Daddy?”
Bear:  “Well, I don’t want to stay here and have to eat dirty old leftovers!“

Dirty, old leftovers.  Pretty much anything she doesn’t like is now referenced as ‘dirty old leftovers’, apparently.  *sigh*  So we left Victim Bear at home with her brother, who grilled hot dogs so she didn’t have to eat D.O.L.  Poor thing.  She was happy as a little lark when we got home, though, especially when she saw the white carryout box in my hand.  Sorry, Little Bear … these are Mama’s dirty leftovers.

Love and Blessings

The Farm Mama

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