My husband, Olly, turned to me the other night on the couch and said, “Should we be naughty?”
It was nearing midnight and for the past few hours we had been watching episode after episode of The Walking Dead. Midnight would have been an appropriate time for us to go to bed, since it wouldn’t be long before our infant son would be waking us to start the day.
One year ago, that same question would have meant, “one more drink,” which would really mean at least three more and the next morning we’d be piecing together the night over Bloody Mary’s at brunch and marveling at how gloriously random it had all been.
Naughty used to be the cigarette I’d sneak when I was out with my girlfriends. It used to be the random Tuesday after-work dinner that lasted until 2 am. It was skipping the gym to go meet a friend for a glass of wine. I was always up for naughty.
But something funny happened to me this time when my husband uttered that word to me. I couldn’t decide whether it was Pavlovian conditioning or a testament to how dramatically different my Friday nights had become. But my heart started beating a little bit faster and my adrenaline surged ever so slightly.
And I realized I was excited for the night to unfold–just like I always had been when we were out on the town. Except this time the thrill came from knowing that there were no hours to waste on a hangover, a lazy lie-in or scouring the perfect brunch spot from in bed. Instead, there was a 12-pound human who, in about three hours, was about to let his parents know what the consequences would be for being naughty.
But there were zombies to destroy. And only three episodes left of season four. Should we be naughty?
I immediately said, “Yes.”
