Of course, it’s been ten years. If it had been nine years, or eleven, we wouldn’t have received an invitation by mail for Mitch’s ten-year high school reunion, right? But we did, so one can only assume that ten years has actually passed since Mitch graduated, that year of commando missions and swimming at the lake by night and band practice in the garage and drama.
Ah, the drama.
Fortunately, Mitch and I went to the same high school (his senior year was my freshman), so I won’t be at a loss for folks to socialize with. A few classmates dropped by the other night for beer and burritos, and of course the yearbook was unearthed and the pages, sodden with signatures, were turned as we looked for forgotten names and remembered faces and told the same worn stories again and again. This was, we joked, the “reunion pre-game show.” We were doing our homework.
And so, tomorrow night we will take off for our first sans-baby evening since that fateful Mothers’ Day, I in my high-heeled shoes and Mitch in his slacks and best tie. We will eat dinner, drink cocktails, do adult things! Remember those? Things that don’t involve spit up or diapers or sweet baby smiles or cooing or snuggling or…
I am understandably apprehensive about this. Excited. But apprehensive.
Tonight Mitch gave Lydia a bottle in preparation for her evening at my parents’ and she took to it vigorously, grinning at him as if it was the best thing since, well, breastmilk, that her dad was feeding her. Like, the two best things in the world! At the same time! Also, she laughed. She smiled at him and gave him the sweetest chuckle, bestowing upon him the first of what I hope will be many chuckles.
I was too smitten to bother with jealousy.