My eldest child, Max, is now five years old. Strangely enough, that’s about the same number of nights my husband, Tom, and I have been out together since his arrival. You could easily count them on one hand, perhaps even wave it in disbelief or use it to playfully smack someone on the head.
Sure, we’ve had other outings, but they weren’t true date nights. We didn’t make reservations at a restaurant that doesn’t come with a paper menu, nor did we share a bottle of wine while enjoying the flicker of real, non-electric candles. Instead, our “dates” often consisted of a few hours spent watching a matinee while my sister quietly entertained our younger ones in the living room. We limited ourselves to Oscar-nominated films, because anything less seemed like a waste of precious time.
We also attempted what we called “upscale lunch,” which is a bit of a misnomer. It involves dining at a nice Italian or French restaurant, complete with low lighting and art adorning the walls. We’d indulge in three courses and sip wine, all while pretending it was a dinner experience. The downside? Eventually, you have to leave—and at three in the afternoon, you’re thrust back into parenting mode, cooking dinner and reading bedtime stories when all you really want is to collapse into bed with an aspirin.
But it wasn’t a lack of effort or marital incompetence that limited our outings; it was something entirely different. For the first two years of parenting, dating was practically impossible.
After arriving prematurely at thirty weeks, our little Max came home following a three-month NICU stay equipped with a tracheotomy, suction machine, and oxygen monitor. Handing over such responsibilities to a teenage babysitter was out of the question. During those fragile early months, I questioned my own ability to care for him—what could a high school teacher like me possibly know about suctioning phlegm from a trach? But I adapted and became proficient in meeting his needs. Looking back now, I take pride in those rare evenings we managed to sneak out and the sporadic afternoons we pieced together amidst the medical whirlwind that enveloped our lives.
It wasn’t until two years later, when he no longer needed the trach, that we dared to venture out for our first proper date. My mother was now a trusted babysitter, no longer faced with monitors and medical equipment. We slipped away to a vineyard where we enjoyed too much wine under twinkling lights, serenaded by crickets and live music.
Then, we discovered we were expecting twins. It turned out that even Grandma couldn’t manage twin infants alongside an older brother who, while stable, was still immobile. At this point, Max hadn’t yet received his wheelchair, and only I or a trained feeding therapist could coax him to eat. Instead of dates, Tom and I took long walks in between feedings and diaper changes, venting our frustrations. It was therapeutic, but not exactly a bonding experience.
One evening, while indulging in a late-night dinner of peanut butter and jelly, I glanced at Tom. The television light revealed that his beard had turned completely gray. When did that happen? I hadn’t properly looked at him in ages.
“Hey,” I nudged him with my foot from the other end of the couch. He responded with a muffled “hmmm?” through a mouthful of peanut butter. “We really need to escape this house. Just the two of us. In real clothes. After dark. For a couple of hours.”
This wasn’t an epiphany, but voicing it over the backdrop of our favorite show made it feel achievable. The kids were older, and I had matured enough as a parent to understand the impact of neglecting our relationship. We hadn’t been dealt an easy hand, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t reshape it.
I took to social media to seek out a babysitter. Whispers over Facebook, devoid of any of the anxiety I felt, led me to the best teacher at Max’s inclusive preschool. Her name is Lily, and her number is a prized possession. Now, she regularly steps in, allowing us to escape into the night.
We’re managing to go out once a month now, which is a remarkable increase from our previous average.
Just last week, we attended a wedding, the ideal date night—free food, drinks, dancing, and cake. It has been a decade since I walked down the aisle, but I danced harder and stayed out longer than any other couple on the floor. We’ve certainly earned it.
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In summary, despite the challenges that come with parenting special needs children, it’s essential to prioritize time together as a couple. With some resourcefulness and support, it’s possible to carve out those precious moments that help strengthen your relationship.