Messy Minded Momma

My husband likes to say that since becoming a mom, I’ve gone from a rocker to a rocking chair. Considering we met at a rock concert, but I now find loud music physically offensive, he’s not entirely wrong. Don’t get me wrong. I still love music. I enjoy my power ballads from the 80s and 90s, I just prefer them at lower decibels these days. My husband, on the other hand, is a music guy. One of those people who, if music didn’t exist, his airways might collapse.

The truth is, my husband and I haven’t had a real date just the two of us in almost five years.

As soon as our son came along, our bar nights turned into play places that smell like feet and french fries. Romantic getaways turned into family vacations with mascot bears and the cast of Sesame Street. Our voluntary late nights turned into falling asleep on the couch at 9 pm, only to be woken an hour later to soothe our son back to sleep.

In five years, we’ve gone out alone twice. Both times were when our son was two.

The first time was for an hour during the day so I could get our son’s name tattooed on my collarbone.

The second time we hired a babysitter in hopes of going out for a late-night sushi dinner while our son was asleep. Little did we know we planned this date during a sleep regression. The babysitter waited awkwardly and patiently in the living room while my husband and I rotated rocking our son back to sleep.

By the time we finally made it out the door, it was almost 9 pm, and every sushi restaurant in the area had closed. After driving around for an hour, we ended up at a dive bar. We were already paying the babysitter until 11pm, so we were determined to take advantage of the hour we had left.

Turns out enjoying myself wasn’t in the cards that night.

The live music was too loud, and not the enjoyable kind. The poor sound quality kind. The nachos were dry and suspiciously topping-less, and I spent the entire time checking the baby monitor app like a day trader on Wall Street watching his stock portfolio.

Since then, my husband and I haven’t really tried to go out again. Life has been busy life-ing. We’ve been managing schedules, work, sports, school activities, friendships, family, and marriage. We’ve been on autopilot. And we’re tired. So tired.

Our therapist recently told us we need to start making time for each other again. It’s important to remember how and why we fell in love. It’s important for our son to see his parents happy together.

So I decided our son was old enough for us to try going on a date again.

I’ve been on an Ozzy kick lately, replaying his songs over and over. Something about his passing really struck a chord with me. So when I heard there would be an Ozzy and Motley Crue tribute band playing in the next town over, I jumped at the opportunity to buy two tickets. Sadly, I never got to see Ozzy live when he was on this earth, but I had a feeling this was going to be a night to remember.

On Friday, I told my son that Mommy and Daddy were going on a date and his Aunt would come over to play with him for a bit. His first reaction was to ask what a date was. I told him it’s when two people who like or love each other spend time alone doing something fun. Tears immediately started streaming down his cheeks. “I want to go on a date with you and Daddy!” he sobbed. His tears tugged at my heartstrings, but they also made me smile inside because I knew exactly where his mind went. He heard “doing something fun” and immediately assumed we were going to do one of his favourite things without him, like a play place or arcade. I reassured him he’d have plenty of fun with his Aunt, who was bringing glow-in-the-dark tattoos, glow sticks, and a black light. And that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be gone too long.

Leaving the house Saturday evening was tactical. We set up Find My Friends on my iPad so our son could track us. We gave permission for junk food and a late bedtime, knowing he’d likely fall asleep on the couch anyway. We left a few dollars so he and his Aunt could make a trip to Walmart for a new toy. Then we smothered him with hugs and kisses and made our escape.

Once in the car, we plugged the address into the GPS and began our one-hour-and-fifteen-minute journey north. The entire drive was filled with conversation and soft power ballads playing in the background. At home we can’t get five uninterrupted minutes of conversation, and when we do, it’s about schedules, work, sports, or school activities. This time we talked about everything else. It felt like we were getting to know each other again, while somehow already knowing each other completely.

We arrived shortly after 7pm and immediately felt like we had time traveled back to 1989. Long hair, band tees, studded belts, bandanas, black eyeliner and polish and tight leather pants. My eyes were dancing in their sockets. The crowd ranged from people in their mid to late fifties to those in their early twenties, with my husband and me landing comfortably somewhere in the middle. The venue smelled like sweat, whiskey, and bad decisions. I felt liberated.

We spent the entire show singing and rocking along to our favourite songs. Rodney Fraser Clarke, the frontman of Crazy Babies, did an incredible job honouring Ozzy Osbourne. His mannerisms and vocals were spot on. I later learned the band is considered one of North America’s most accurate tribute acts and even received Ozzy’s blessing.

In the end, I came out of retirement, left the rocking chair at home, and enjoyed a night out with my husband. My ears might still be ringing, I have a slight headache, and I smell faintly like a mosh pit, but I remembered something important. Before we were parents, we were two people who fell in love somewhere between guitar solos and power ballads.

And if I ever go off the rails on a crazy train again, I know my husband will be right there beside me…in the locomotive next to mine, along for the ride.

Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.

Crazy, but that’s how it goes

Millions of people living as foes

Maybe it’s not too late

To learn how to love

And forget how to hate

P.S.

Since writing this post, my sister-in-law reminded me that my husband and I did attend another concert almost three years ago. It was July and outdoors. Thousands of people packed together in the middle of a summer heat wave. That one felt less like a date and more like surviving a heat wave with a soundtrack.

This time was different.

Less than 300 people. A Broadway theatre. Sitting comfortably while listening to the music of our adolescence. Turns out the rocker might still be in me after all. She just occasionally prefers a seat now.