Coming home

All the front lights were on when I pulled into the drive. As I walked into the house, the husband called hello from our kitchen.

"How was the movie?" he asked.

"Good, sweet," I said. I'd gone to see 500 Days of Summer.

"You're good and sweet," he said, giving me a kiss.

"How was The Boy?"

"He was good." The husband gave me a rundown of the bedtime routine, which amounted to The Boy getting tired and agreeing night-night was for the best.

"But then," the husband said, "he stood up in the crib and started rattling the bars yelling, 'Momma, momma!' like he was trying to tell you to get in there and say goodnight. Finally, I went in and told him Momma wasn't here and he needed to sleep."

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500 Days of Summer is a good movie, a sweet movie about the highs and lows of a beginning relationship. I went with two friends, one of whom also has a little one. We talked on the way home about the pangs we felt as the movie started, realizing we'd never again feel that tingle of a new relationship, where you're talking for hours and so desperate and scared to kiss the other person a knot forms in your stomach and stretches down to your toes. But we also agreed to relief that we'd never have to go through the bottom-dropping break-ups. Getting out for a night with the girls was lovely, but we were happy to go home to being wives and mommas, we agreed.

I meant it when I said it in the car.

I felt how lucky I was to be able to say it when I walked in the house.