Stolen moments

There's a furtive aspect to being a new parent: furtive in that each free moment now acquires a special significance. Awake before the baby? Finish grading those papers early? It's like coming upon a silver dollar, on the sidewalk: you look around, sheepishly, and then pick it up, full of ideas about what to do with it.

Five months ago, of course, I spent those free moments in ways that now seem ridiculous. A monograph on the deciphering of Mayan glyphs seemed like a reasonable investment of time. An episode of Head of the Class might occupy a free half hour. And then there was online Scrabble, as well.

But now we're lean, and efficient; we have lists of tasks, and goals, and aspirations, and when an unplanned, uncommitted moment happens along, it's almost already accounted for. The check's already spent, even before it's cashed.

Which is why last evening was so pleasant. My folks were in town, and they watched over a sleeping Cleo in the evening, as L. and I slipped out for dinner at Ethel and Ramone's. And soon we were sitting in the early autumn evening, gumbo before us, three years of marriage behind us, and, perhaps most amazing of all, two hours, unaccounted for, in front of us.

And how did we spend it? Oh, the manner wasn't exceptional; it was the simple chance to do so as we chose that seemed remarkable.