We need to take care of ourselves, too! We've got delicious and easy recipes, the latest fashion and home decor trends, health topics that impact every woman and so much more. So grab a cup of coffee and dig in.
It truly takes a village to raise a child, and we're here for you! Link up with a community of moms just like you and learn about fabulous events in your area plus amazing product giveaways, discounts and more!
Last Saturday evening, I put on a dress and high heels and kissed the twins goodbye while they happily ate chicken nuggets served by the babysitter. It was date night, and I was going to meet my husband at an awesome Hungarian restaurant in our neighborhood.
It being Saturday night and a place known as much for their bar as the food, you would think that kids wouldn't be here.
We're talking about Brooklyn, and one of the great things about it is that from the burger joints to the wine bars, kids are everywhere. When I'm with my kids, I like having that option. But when I'm on date night, I don't want to be in the vicinity of anyone's baby or toddler, or even a well-behaved third-grader.
The host led us to the back dining room and offered us a nice table for two. At the table right next to this one was a perfectly nice-looking couple having dinner with their seemingly nice 2-year-old. My husband and I exchanged knowing looks.
"Is there anywhere else?" my husband asked.
The host informed us that the only other table was one up front by the bar. We nodded in agreement and headed to the kid-free section, ready to enjoy some beers and adult conversation.
Did we feel bad about the fact that the young mom and dad most likely knew we were avoiding sitting next to them? Hell, no!
I'm not saying they were wrong for being there with their kid, I just wanted nothing to do with them. During the rare times I'm not with my kids, I don't want to hear other kids, or worse, hear parents parenting kids. I don't want to pick up the sippy cup he'll inevitably drop or make flirty smiley faces with him or pretend to be OK with it when he starts crying or poops or does any of the normal things that little kids do—and I know they will because I have two of them.
Up at the front of the restaurant, we were hit with a cold gust of air every time someone opened the door to come in. On top of that, three drunk guys at the bar were mouthing off about the women they'd met on Tinder. We'd traded the kid section for the juvenile one, but we had no regrets.
We were just a couple of adults out to dinner, with nary a child in sight. We wouldn't have had it any other way.