The bedroom furniture casts short shadows in the muted gray of late June. I hot-potato hop on one leg, a few flecks of shredded grass still stuck to my shins, pulling on a pair of khaki pants. My hands throb from nettle stings as I gingerly slip a dress shirt over sunburned shoulders.

My wife Maria stands half-dressed in a gray skirt in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair into a demure ponytail. Dusting her cheeks with rosy blush and reminding me to check the boat schedule again, she pauses to ask for my opinion: the black clogs or the comfy sandals? My gender-neutralized, non-judgmental answer is of no help.

Our young children, full of questions about our plans, are seated at the dining room table causing some sort of undefined trouble; plates heaped with macaroni and cheese sit untouched, cold, gluey. A kettle on the boil, in less than a minute they’ll inevitably ignite into a furious, shrieking scrum.

When I was little and my mom and dad had plans to go out, Mom got all dressed up with rouge, eyeliner, bright pink lipstick and sometimes a new hairdo, smelling of fresh perfume and mint as she kissed us goodnight, lined up at the front door in our pajamas.

Sometimes when we woke up the next morning, we would find a handful of rococo swizzle sticks, long clear amber or green molded-plastic highball stir-sticks with a monkey in a fez or the Statue of Liberty or a risqué hula girl adorning the tip of the shaft.

I studied these artifacts like an archeologist, imagining the lively supper club and exotic cocktails, staccato Cuban rhythms unwinding on red vinyl records and sophisticated conversations full of clever jokes and rakish wit.

I concluded that Mom and Dad needed to get dressed up and pretend to be someone else once in a while, and the main reason my brothers and sisters and I couldn’t go was that we would have re-minded them of who they really were, deep down.

For Maria and me, giving birth is probably more common than a night out. After dropping off the kids, in the minivan by ourselves, for a moment Maria and I are struck shy and suddenly tender; munchkins after the house began to pitch and landed in the ditch, etc. Ding-dong the kids are gone. I reach for her hand.

We’ve had a reservation for months. Maria loves the food: Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and jersey cream, chocolate malts, cheese blintzes, nachos. The service is crisp and polished. The silverware feels heavy in the hand. We anxiously call ahead to ensure everything is OK. Yes, we’re on the list, they’re waiting for us.

We pull up near the front doors and a young man in a blue hat hands us a vague sort of ticket and gets behind the wheel. Our eyes follow our minivan around the corner and out of sight.

We check in at the desk and fidget in an anteroom decorated in polite and patient browns and greens, with a giant fish tank burbling in the middle of the room. Maria calls her mom and lets her know we’ve arrived.

A pleasant woman in a floral smock leads Maria to a digital scale. She records her weight, checks her blood pressure and temperature and asks when she last had something to eat, and finally attaches Tyvek wrist bands full of printed information on both our wrists. On mine, the nurse writes “Dad” in black Sharpie. On Maria’s she writes “Mom,” “Baby A” and “Baby B”.

Once in the labor and delivery suite, we open the curtains, fluff the pillows and test out the bed and the TV. Nurse Lisa introduces herself by asking “Are you VIP? It says on your chart you’re VIP.” We’re not VIP, but it’s a long story, and it turns out that Lisa’s from the Island and we have lots of friends in common. Turning to me, she says, “You guys sure go to a lot of trouble just to get a night out.”

Later, after the twins arrive, Maria orders cheese blintzes and a chocolate malt. She drains the last of her malt with a gurgle, and inside the glass, I see a long plastic sundae spoon leaning to one side. Out of the corner of my eye, for a few ephemeral seconds, I see a monkey in a fez on the end of that spoon.