Sometimes, especially when I'm pouring over boxes of old photos, I ache for the days when my children were toddlers; when they would look at me as if I had invented ice-cream or hugged me with the ferocity of a soldier returning from the front lines. Those days are long gone but whenever that melancholy strikes I know that all I have to do is plug in one of our old family videos to be reminded of how cute they were; how sweet they were; how much fun they were. But once I have a sniffle or two tripping down memory lane, I inevitably start to think about how equally great it is that these adorable creatures are now adults.
Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).
We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.
And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.
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