It’s 7:00am. I should be in bed, snuggled up to The Wedding Date, but instead I’m standing barefoot in my parents’ garage in my pajamas, trying to clamber my way into the elevator so I can sneak upstairs and across the hall without being detected. Why? Well, let’s just say dating a man with kids makes the art of sleeping together even more complicated than it already is.
Several weeks ago, my parents lifted the embargo on The Wedding Date and I sharing a room when he spends the night in Philadelphia. This means—as I discussed on Monday—that I’ve been getting way less sleep than usual. When I showed up to work the first morning after we’d spent the night together in the guest room, I was so exhausted that I decided to take my preschoolers to play outside in lieu of their usual dance class.
I brought a set of miniature tennis rackets with us and despite the fact that the majority of my three year old spent the entire morning complaining that they didn’t “know how to tennis” one got the hang of it rather quickly. He then proceeded to lodge a tennis ball right into my eye socket from about ten inches away and although we play with little foam smiley faces instead of real tennis balls, the damage was done.
Moral of the story?
No co-ed sleepovers on school nights.
Or when children are visiting, which brings me back to my original point.
Last weekend, The Wedding Date and his two children spent the night at my folks’ place in Philadelphia. We’d spent the night before at The Wedding Date’s house, where he slept on the couch at my insistence, and upon arriving in Philadelphia, I sent The Wedding Date downstairs to his usual quarters and informed his children than if they needed anything, they would find me in my room on the third floor.
But it was a difficult weekend. And after two days of trying (and failing miserably) to be the best girlfriend/future daughter-in-law/pseudo step mom that the world has ever seen, I decided we needed to talk.
So I pulled on my robe (even though it was about a million degrees out) and slipped downstairs. Unfortunately The Wedding Date’s youngest wasn’t far behind and before I knew it, the eldest was awake and in the shower just inches away from the guest room.
In other words, I was trapped.
The Wedding Date was against the whole ruse from the start (“I don’t like lying to my kids”) but I insisted (“Don’t you want to set a good example?”) so I was determined to make it back upstairs without his kids seeing, come hell or high water.
Or the elevator.
So there I am, weaving through the various boxes of wine bottles, bike equipment and shopping carts that line the entrance to the elevator at 7:00am on Sunday morning so that I can sneak back into my bedroom like a 17 year old on prom night… except the elevator is full, because sometimes we use the elevator as a closet and this is one of those times.
I try squeezing myself inside, but there isn’t enough floor space for me to stand. I try climbing on top of the boxes but they’re full of glass picture frames and I keep falling off of my perch. Eventually I give up, sneak back through the garage and into the guest room.
“We need another plan,” I hiss to The Wedding Date.
He sends his youngest back up to the fourth floor to change and I race up the stairs only to discover—to my great horror—that I’d left my bedroom door wide open. In other words, his kids would have passed my room on their way downstairs and seen that it was empty.
So much for setting a good example.
- Finally: The Wedding Date’s Kids (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- A Double Date… with The Wedding Date’s PARENTS! (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- How To Tell You’re Becoming an Old Lady (fieldworkinstilettos.com)