The Sick Sense

By Gwen Moran

I'm standing in front of the mirror, trying to remember how to put on mascara without poking myself in the eye. On the bed, stockings and the one dress (black, of course) that makes me look like I have a waist are laid out. Earlier in the day, I went to the salon and had my hair blown out and my nails done. The reservations are made, and the babysitter's on her way. My husband and I are going out on a real date. And I'm as giddy as I was when he first asked me out more than ten years ago.

As I pluck the last stray eyebrow hair and survey the result of my rusty make-up skills in the mirror, my darling two-year-old shuffles into the bathroom. I look down at her lovingly, and my heart drops. Glassy eyes. Flushed cheeks. She says the dreaded words that I already know, "Mommy, I don't feel good," and then throws up on my new pedicure.

Within minutes of taking her temperature (102.7 degrees), weeks of planning are undone with the efficiency of roadies breaking down the last night of a Springsteen show. Reservations and babysitter canceled. Dress and stockings back in the closet. My $35-plus-tip hairstyle is now pulled back in a clip, as my well-manicured hands are pruned from dipping a cloth into cold water to cool my daughter's forehead.

While you may not believe in ESP, or the so-called sixth sense, there's little doubt that most children possess a different kind of supernatural power - the ability to innately know when their parents have planned a big night out, and then spike a fever so high it can be used as an alternate source of home heating. I call it the "sick sense," and it's ruined more nights out than I can count.

There was the year we celebrated Christmas with pinkeye. The Easter party we had to leave because of a sudden fever caused by an ear infection. And my husband and I have attended so many events solo, one of us staying home with our sick child (usually after losing several rounds of "Rock, Paper, Scissors"), that our friends are beginning to wonder if we've secretly split up.

The only way I've found to out-wit the sick sense is to make last-minute plans that require minimal preparation and no fancy clothes. I've yet to deal with sudden illness when we've decided at the last minute to go out for pizza, especially if we're going to Chuck E. Cheese.

So, this Valentine's Day, my husband and I have made our arrangements for a two-person-only night out with the stealth and precision of Navy Seals or CIA agents under deep cover. Our babysitter is secretly lined up. At the appointed time, we'll call her with a code word that means that we'll be dropping off one female toddler within 15 minutes.

Like plain-clothes detectives, we'll be dressed in our regular garb as we load our darling daughter into her car seat and hide her over-stuffed diaper bag in the trunk. Once the drop is made, we'll make our getaway, spending a romantic evening at the only place that can accommodate us without reservations on February 14 - the parking lot of the local KFC, where we'll dine on Extra Crispy-style drumsticks and large Diet Cokes.

It'll be the healthiest holiday we've had in years.