Date night

Cinderella got her man with the help of a fairy godmother. I could use one of those. The simple act of going out with my husband requires just about as much preparation as gearing up for the ball.

First, the household prep. We don't entertain too often, so when we do, the house gets a big polishing. Likewise, when the babysitter is on the way, I revisit nooks and crannies untouched since the last time we cleaned, eradicating dust, fur and things that go crunch under foot. I scrub the bathroom, including the tub. I scrub the floors. I stow away all signs of life with a toddler. Except for toys.

Not a big fan of stuff, we try to limit the kid's playthings to a manageable number and rotate them in and out of the toy box. So why do I chuck just about everything he's ever owned into the living room on date night? To make sure our chaos looks enough like other families' chaos that we won't be drummed out of the neighborhood for preferring adult tidiness to toddler pandemonium? To prove I'm not a bad mommy who deprives her kid? To prevent boredom? Who knows. I just know that I do it.

Next, the food. I buy babysitter-friendly snacks that still conform to my standards in case we're stuck eating the leftovers. So Diet Coke is out. I like to provide a balance of sugary treats and savory chasers. This requires at least one agonizing hour in the snack aisle, looking for something with universal appeal that still says something about who we are and what we care about. Salty snacks have to be organic, and chocolate must be fair trade. Sounds ridiculous, I know. Just buy what's on sale and be done with it! Better yet, leave money for a pizza. Everyone likes pizza. But what if she had dinner already? Or what if she doesn't like pizza? Then she'll have to scavenge in the fridge (the one thing I didn't bother to clean) and come up empty. Unless she likes dried cranberries. Or hot sauce. I couldn't live with the guilt.

Between dusting, vacuuming, and taking a shower, I complete my housekeeping regimen by firing up the oven and baking some cookies. This has nothing to do with my inner Betty Crocker; it's purely purposeful. With a few pets in the house, my paranoia re: animal odors is palpable. Nothing makes a house smell homier (and less gamey) than baked goods. Tollhouse cookie dough does the trick.

Where is the kid during this frenzy? Let's just say thank you to the creators of Baby Einstein.

At last, time to get ready. Only five minutes left for personal grooming. I shoo the cats off the clothes I laid out on the bed during the cleaning frenzy, then curse them when I can't find the lint brush. Not too adept at cosmetics, I ruin my mascara with a sneeze. Oh well, at least I'm dressed. Now if only I could find my keys.

But wait, here comes the kid, up the stairs, carrying his favorite book. "Mommy loves you, buddy. She's just in a hurry. We'll read later," I offer as explanation for my frustrated-key-hunt scowl. He persists, shoving the book against my leg. Naturally I relent. As we finish reading, the doorbell rings, and his mellow little face turns to panic. Oh no. He's going to have a meltdown. In comes the beloved sitter. What's this? My little guy drifts into her arms and off to the land of "Mommy who?" My heart breaks. I barely warrant a good-bye kiss, but the little hug he gives grudgingly isn't without its rewards...or residual apple sauce.

Finding my keys, I'm out the door at last. I hit the ATM and withdraw the equivalent of a third mortgage to cover the evening's expenses. Next I head to my man's workplace to pick him up. Thank God for rush-hour traffic. Sitting still for the first time all day, I put on my lipstick and recover from potential deodorant breakdown. Taking the most direct route requires NASCAR driving, Ricky Bobby style. The parked cars on the right, turn lanes on the left, and barrage of bozos in between make the ride more like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, but I'm still on an adrenaline high from rushing around. Before long, though, the twenty or thirty red lights between our place and his office kill my buzz. By the time I reach my spouse, I'm ready for a nap. From the looks of him, so is he.

Time, money and effort being what they are, maybe our next date night will be a quiet evening at home, downloading LOST and eating take-out. Sure, the house is dirty and the surroundings are dull, but at least we won't go broke or crazy, and we might even stay awake.