I know, it's hard to imagine—just look at the kid.
This is what I'm taking about:
Dave and I went out to dinner tonight with my good friend Lyla and her husband, David, at the Outback. Over a Bloomin' Onion (I think I have used up all of my calories for the rest of the year) and strip streaks, we talked about 9/11 and its aftermath. We laughed about old stories, like the time Dave and I were walking into a restaurant and suddenly, this kidney stone I had decided to make its way down my insides (don't ever pass a kidney stone, if you can avoid it) and I turned bright red with pain and bent over, clutching my belly, and gasped, "I have go to to the hospital NOW!" and Dave said, "But can I just get a sandwich to go?" (We didn't get the sandwich.) We talked about our jobs and home renovations and a blog David is into called Sexy People that features people's old photos of themselves. We laughed more about, oh, I don't remember. But I do remember exactly how I felt over dinner: carefree. And, free. And like an adult. Not a parent, an adult. And a little sentimental.
During these rare dinners out with friends, a longing rises within me for that time in my life before I had kids.
I'll bet plenty of parents have similar pangs on occasion. You take on a world of responsibilities when you have a child. You suddenly have a little less fun and a whole lot less time for yourself. But for me, there is the added yearning of a time when I was free from the worries, the tears, the fears, the what-ifs, the will-he-have-a-seizure-agains, the will-he-be-OKs, and all of that.
We got home at 11; Max woke up at 11:30 and stood at the top of the stairs, sniffling loudly. It's how he announces he has woken up. I walked upstairs, scooped him up, buried my face in his warm neck, nuzzled him and breathed him in.
It made me happy.
But, damn, that Bloomin' Onion is lying in my stomach like a ton of lead.
