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My mother has been out in Los Angeles helping us with the babe for three weeks. She leaves Monday. I am going to go through some serious extra-set-of-hands withdrawal come next week.

Regardless, my mom offered to watch the baby for us last night so we could have a rare escape as a couple. A chance at a date, something that will happen as frequently as a menopausal woman’s period once my mother leaves. So we planned accordingly. We chose a late show that would allow us to execute our nightly bedtime ritual before departing- bath with daddy and fueling of the tanks with mommy. I was highly concerned that hunger would strike mid-movie resulting in the pig’s squeal I’ve discussed previously so I obsessively strapped the wee one to boob whenever there was a dull moment that evening: in the middle of dinner, while hanging new pictures on the wall, while cartwheeling through the backyard. I’m just that good. Once she was appropriately and adequately juiced, we flew out the door mere minutes until the start of the show.

We arrived and chatted with the very friendly man at the ticket counter, then the lady serving popcorn, and the enormous bouncer checking our tickets. (This is just to make you aware of how many strangers I spoke to upon arrival at the theater). Anyway, as demonstration of just how truly sleep deprived we must be, we sat in an empty theater for 15 minutes before indignantly complaining to management that the movie was ten minutes past its start time and didn’t they know we had a baby at home whose hourglass like tummy was counting down until her next feeding? Only to find out that we were in the WRONG theater and our movie HAD started on time.

And to top it all off, I realized mid-movie that my bra had been hanging out of  my dress the ENTIRE time because in the hoopla to get out the door, I hadn’t properly clothed myself post-nurse and James is so accustomed to my half-dressed state of existence that he failed to notice and deter me from such a public display.

Two words: Class. act.