Went on a date tonight, movie and dinner. (For me, the second movie in as many years. It’s about time, right?)
We saw adoption-themed Martian Child. (Still mulling that one over.)
During dinner, we had conversation. Conversation that didn’t include entertaining anyone else other than each other, or reaching for books and snacks from a nearby tote bag. And it was fabulous. (Thing is, for all its fabulousness, I missed my Maevey Gravy. And straw splatter, tucking napkins and cutting food. And her smile. Oh, her smile.)
Among the topics, The Husband even helped me brainstorm crafty ideas for placecards I’ve been asked to make for Thanksgiving dinner. (No, I can’t be normal and just use paper and pen. (I’m thinking … chocolate turkey molds or pinecones or mini-pumpkins or old black and white photos of the guests. And ribbon, definitely ribbon.)
He even suggested designing and painting wine glasses (I did that one year for holiday gifts, a set of four wine glasses, each one depicting a season) with names. Considering what any of my painting projects does to our home life — I tend to set ridiculous deadlines and let my perfectionist tendencies rage out of control — I say, that’s love, people.
It’s been 15 years. We get a Big Night Out and the man brainstorms an artsy-craftsy project with me for at least half of it. Yeah, love.
Then, we got to come home to the comforting snores of our Maevey Gravy, tucked snug as a bug in a rug by her Grandma Cookie.
And everything felt right with our world.