My husband and I schedule our time together and it’s romantic. Seems like an oxymoron, right?
Scheduling sounds all clinical and mathematical. And, yes, I guess it is. I hated the idea initially. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of girl and if someone had told me my marriage would be operating on a timetable, I would have laughed.
I used to think romance was meant to be all spontaneous and free, unencumbered by the minutiae of practical life. I watched way too many rom-coms in my 20s, clearly.
And I then I married a mathematically inclined man. And we had a child. I’m not sure when our first scheduling occurred but I feel like it coincided with the first few years of parenting. I remember our collective despair when we realised that vast expanse of post-dinner time we had so enjoyed, was gone.
Somehow, in parenthood it has whittled from four hours to two. And God, we missed that time. To reconnect, to do the things we loved spontaneously, or just to zone out in front of the television together. Thinking back, it’s like my brain can’t even compute how it used to work before our schedule. I guess we just had more time.
Now we have Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights where we hang out. It’s negotiable. Things pop up. Sometimes we switch things around. We still have dinner most nights as a family but after our child’s in bed, we’ll go our separate ways, to watch our own TV shows, read our own books, blog our own blogs or gobble up hours of time accidently on Facebook.
If it’s a date night, I’ll usually cook a dinner that involves wine, we’ll watch a movie we know we’ll both like, or a show we’re tracking together, have sex and go to sleep at roughly the same time.
When I first started to tell friends that this is what my life looked like I expected them to widen their eyes in horror. How boring. How particular. How unromantic.