Adulting killed your adventure. Here’s how to bring it back without quitting your job or moving to Bali.
When Did We Stop Having Fun Together?
The other night, I found myself thinking about this one random Tuesday from years ago.
My wife and I had dragged all the couch cushions onto the floor and turned the living room into a blanket fort. Popcorn everywhere. Half-empty wine glasses on the carpet. We were mid-laugh at something dumb—something I don’t even remember now. Probably a bad TV show or a joke we stretched way too far. We stayed up way too late. No reason, no special occasion. Just… us.
And I realized I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done something like that.
When did staying up talking turn into passing out mid-episode? When did spontaneity get replaced with schedules and shared Google calendars? When did we stop playing?
These days, our wildest nights involve folding laundry while half-watching a documentary that neither of us finishes. If we’re really feeling bold, maybe we make it through an entire episode before one of us starts snoring.
Somewhere between baby monitors and budgeting apps, between soccer practice and school emails, fun just… disappeared. And not the big, planned kind—the kind you need a babysitter and a hotel to enjoy. I mean the kind that used to show up out of nowhere. The everyday fun that reminded us we actually like each other.
The Problem Isn’t Just Fatigue—It’s Disconnection
Don’t get me wrong—we are tired. We’ve got four kids. My wife coaches our oldest daughter’s travel soccer team, which means three practices a week and weekend tournaments that swallow entire Saturdays like hungry monsters. Then there’s Neve’s gymnastics, the other two with their own soccer teams, playdates, birthday parties, and whatever chaos Wednesday decides to throw at us. Thursdays are literally the only day we don’t have something scheduled, and even then, we’re usually catching up on all the things we didn’t get done the other six days.
But I’ve realized it’s not just the physical exhaustion that’s killing the fun. It’s the mental load. The seriousness of it all.
Once the kids go to bed, we don’t talk like we used to—we triage. “You got the snacks for Saturday’s game?” “Did you pay the electric bill?” “Who’s picking Neve up from gymnastics tomorrow?” “Can you believe the mortgage rate went up again?”
We sound less like partners and more like operations managers running a very chaotic logistics company called Family, Inc.
And in all of that coordination, fun quietly slips into the “someday” pile—alongside rest, romance, and the idea of a hobby that isn’t related to school calendars or home maintenance.
We keep telling ourselves that we’ll enjoy each other again when things slow down. After soccer season. Once the kids are older. Maybe on vacation—if we survive until then.
But if we’re not careful, we’ll look up in five years and realize we’ve built a functional life with someone we barely recognize.
The Lie We Start to Believe
Lately, I’ve noticed how many couples—including us—start craving time apart when we’re feeling this way. The Instagram posts about solo getaways and friends’ weekends look pretty appealing when you’re 14 days deep into passive-aggressively debating who forgot to buy milk.
“I just need a break,” we say. “I need to remember who I am outside of being a parent.”
And hey—those breaks can be amazing. I’ve taken them. I support them. Sometimes space really does help.
But here’s what I’ve started to realize: Time apart won’t rebuild what’s breaking between you. You can’t reconnect by disconnecting.
Now, don’t get me wrong—my wife and I are actually decent about date nights. We go out to dinner regularly, and we love it because we’re both total foodies and it gives us a chance to talk about things beyond pickup schedules and homework. We even have a mini-day date planned where I’m taking off work while the kids are at school—spa, lunch, maybe a tour of a Frank Lloyd Wright house. (See? We can adult AND plan fun!)
But even with our regular dinner dates, I’ve realized we’ve fallen into a bit of a rut. Don’t get me wrong, I love sitting across from my wife discussing the menu and sharing plates. But sometimes I miss the randomness, the silliness, the “what if we just…” moments that used to define us.
The truth is: you don’t need to fly to Bali. You need to remember how to play again.
Right here. In the mess. In between dentist appointments and Amazon returns and the sound of a kid calling out from upstairs for “just one more sip of water.”
The Shift I’m Proposing
I used to think fun had to be spontaneous. That if you scheduled it, it wasn’t real fun—it was forced. And for a while, that belief let me off the hook. “We’re just too busy for that right now.”
But here’s the deal: spontaneity is a luxury. And if you’re living like we are—with kids, jobs, and Google Calendars that look like airline flight logs—then waiting for spontaneity is basically deciding not to have fun at all.
So I’m proposing something I’m calling our “Couple’s Play Reboot.” Think of it as relationship CPR, but with more laughter and less life-or-death pressure. I’m planning to suggest this to my wife—and honestly, writing this article is partly my way of working through the idea before I bring it up with her.
Here’s what I’m thinking:
The Framework: Our “Couple’s Play Reboot”
1. The Weekly “Mini Date Dare”
We’d trade off planning 30-minute surprises for each other. The rule? It has to be something neither of us would normally suggest, and it can’t break the bank.
I’m imagining things like a five-dollar thrift store challenge—give each of us ten minutes to find the weirdest item for the other to wear, then strut around the store in our ridiculous outfits. Or maybe backyard water pong (I don’t drink, but I’m competitive enough to make it interesting), Target hide-and-seek (yes, you read that right), or something involving our kitchen timer and the world’s most dramatic cooking show performance.
The key is novelty. The dumber it sounds, the better.
2. “No Kid Zone” Moments
The idea is to protect ten-minute windows every evening where we don’t talk about the kids, logistics, or work. At all.
I know it sounds harder than it is. The default is always the practical: what needs to be done, what we forgot to do, what’s coming up next.
But the plan is to joke. To flirt. To bring up old inside jokes or play dumb little games like Would You Rather. And if one of us breaks the rule and mentions soccer schedules, who’s picking up Neve from gymnastics, or whether we remembered to pay the water bill? Foot rub penalty. No exceptions. (I may be designing this rule in my favor.)
3. Ritual of Ridiculousness
Every week, we’d pick one intentionally dumb thing to do together. I’m thinking dramatic readings of old text messages from when we were dating. Or karaoke in the kitchen while we clean up dinner. Maybe inventing theme nights where we all have to eat tacos while speaking in British accents.
It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that it would be us again. Not co-managers. Not co-parents. Just the two people who used to stay up too late doing nothing—and loving every second of it.
Overcoming Resistance: “But We’re Still Tired”
Of course we are. We’ve got four kids. Deadlines. Laundry piles that mock us. Group chats that never sleep. Constant notifications.
But that’s exactly why we need to laugh.
Laughter isn’t just nice—it’s physiological. It resets the nervous system. It builds energy. It clears the emotional cobwebs that accumulate from living life in fifth gear.
You don’t need more hours in the day (though that would be nice). You need a different intention for 20 minutes. Instead of both scrolling through your phones while sitting next to each other, try something ridiculous together.
Trust me: fun creates energy. And ironically, when you’re exhausted is exactly when you need it most.
The Deeper Payoff: Play as Intimacy
Here’s what I didn’t expect: When you start playing together again, something shifts in how you see each other.
You start noticing them again. Not as your kid’s snack coordinator or the person who forgot to switch the laundry. But as your person. The one who still makes you laugh. The one who still surprises you. The one you’d choose, even now, all over again.
And when my wife really laughs at something I’ve said—not the polite chuckle but the full-body, can’t-breathe kind of laugh—I feel it. The weight lifts. The connection comes back. The love sharpens.
Not in some grand, romantic way. Just in the real-life, Tuesday-night-in-sweatpants kind of way.
When you play together, you remember you’re not just co-parents or roommates splitting the utility bills. You’re two people who chose each other for a reason beyond shared Netflix preferences and compatible sleep schedules.
A Dare for the Tired Couples
This isn’t about reliving the past. We’re not trying to be who we were ten years ago, back when staying up until 2 a.m. felt normal instead of like a three-day recovery sentence.
We’re trying to remember what made us great—and find new ways to live it now.
So here’s my dare to you (and honestly, to myself): Write yourselves a permission slip this week. Put it on the fridge right next to the soccer schedule and grocery list.
“We’re allowed to laugh. We’re allowed to be weird. We’re allowed to play—right here, right now. Even on a Tuesday night in sweatpants while the dishwasher hums and our kid calls for water for the fifteenth time.”
Because maybe the best adventures aren’t waiting on the other side of a plane ticket. Maybe they’re waiting in your living room. Where you’re sitting with the only person you’d ever want to build this beautiful chaos with.
And maybe—just maybe—if you’re willing to act like fools together again, you’ll remember why you fell in love in the first place.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go plan a mystery thirty-minute date involving our kitchen timer and whatever’s in the back of our junk drawer. My wife has no idea what’s coming.
Focused Action – Couple Edition
3 Fun Dares to Try This Week:
- Mystery 30-Minute Date: Surprise your partner with something they’d never expect. Build a living room fort, stage a dramatic reading of your grocery list, or have a “fancy” dinner using only things from the pantry and your best dishes.
- No Kid Talk Window: Pick one time each day—even just 10 minutes—where you’re not allowed to discuss schedules, logistics, or parenting. Penalty for breaking the rule? The violator owes the other person their favorite candy bar.
- Weekly Weirdness: Choose one silly tradition to start this week. Dance while loading the dishwasher. Create fake cooking show commentary while making dinner. Recreate your first date using only items from around the house.
The goal isn’t perfection. It’s remembering that the person sleeping next to you is still worth playing with.
The Focused Fool Newsletter – Growing As Men. Leading As Fathers.
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