Sometimes I have high expectations. Really high ones. Over silly things.
I find that whenever my expectations are set really high, even when I don't 'try' to do it with my brain, it still happens, and often. It can be little things. Big things. But the high expectations wreck me sometimes.
It could be something as little as dreaming up some amazing, elaborate date with my husband, you know, the once every month or two we get to go out alone. Imagining all the little details that will play out and thinking it'll be oh!so!perfect! because all the stars should just magically align on the nights we get to go out alone with our spouses. Right? RIGHT?
The other night we got a very unplanned date night. Emeline had been talking about my parents all day. "I want Mom-Mom!" she'll say. Or she'll go on and on about "Pop Pop". She talks about both sets of grandparents, actually. But this particular day it was mine. So I kind of called them up on a whim and was all haha, Emeline misses you guys, wanna hang out with her? And without even flinching my Dad was all, um yes! bring her the heck over. And before you even knew it, Declan and I were getting the chance at having a nice, peaceful dinner out alone.
But again, me with the expectations. I thought we were out early enough to get into a restaurant I'd been craving. You know how those nasty beast cravings are. We got there. The smell of the food literally was absolutely divine. I was dreaming of their mango iced tea. Salivating, probably. We walked up to the counter to put our name in and then she said it..."It'll be 55 minutes at least".
I wanted to bust out crying right then and there. I wanted to go into hysterical gasping sobs of But!I'm!Pregnant! and I wanted (and was tempted to) start tapping on the shoulders of other people waiting, being all Look, do you know how few and far between date nights are? Would you exchange your buzzer with us, since, you know, you were clearly here MUCH earlier than us?
We sat down and began to wait. But Declan was realistic and was all But babe, you're hungry now. You can't wait this long. And he was right. My stomach was already at the gurgly-almost-nauseous point. I knew I couldn't wait either. So I turned in my buzzer to the hostess and held back tears as I walked back to the car.
It wasn't just about the food. I just had this grand expectation of this beautiful dim-lit setting to have dinner, just the two of us, quiet and sipping our drinks, saying anything or nothing at all--because it was just us. Yes, I wanted to eat their food. Yes, I was dreaming about their appetizers, and their tea. But again. The expectations.
When I got in the car, my husband asked if I was mad at him. I laughed a little and was all of course not, because I wasn't, at all. But I just started spewing to him about how once you become a parent, that time alone, going out, becomes so special, you JUST WANT IT TO BE PERFECT, dang-it. And that it seems like the whole world should just stop to accommodate you. We should get all the best treatment. All the best servers. The best chef. And a quick-seated entry into the doorway, "Excuse me everyone, this couple is on a D.A.T.E., as in, without child. Please make way."
Of course I'm kidding to some degree. But at the time, I was feeling slighted. Majorly.
Again. With the friggin' expectations.
The fact is that we ended up somewhere else. It was totally fine. No, it wasn't exactly what I wanted in that moment (food-wise). But it was good. And I was with my husband, alone, talking, and not wrangling a toddler who now absolutely HATES restaurants with every ounce of her being. It was peaceful. It was nice. It was needed.
Heck, we even went and got frozen yogurt afterwards, and really? Who can complain about that?
I need to keep my expectations in check sometimes. About little things like date-nights, or about big...much bigger things.
I am a work in progress.