Undivided, Trying

As a person under the age of eighty living in New York City within walking distance of some of the best restaurants in the world, I fear I have tonight hit a new low: the 5:15 dinner reservation. I realize this sort of thing is very popular in much of Florida, and Atlantic City, and certainly in the golfing cities of America's Southwest and, it must be said, with my parents, but as a certifiable night owl and a passionate lover of eating dinner out, it has never been on the menu for me.

And I have guests--epicure guests--who love wine and food and restaurants, too. But the restaurant we wanted to eat at, for nostalgia's sake and because we all love it, had one reservation on the one night we could all go out, and it was tonight at 5:15. As we walked in, I said to the hostess as we followed her to our table, "We're thinking of this as a very late lunch." She sort of smiled, but behind the smile was an edge: an edge that said, very clearly, don't even think about trying to sip drinks slowly until 8 o'clock so you can eat at a reasonable hour like people who aren't senior citizens.

I will say that in spite of the lack of an early bird special, we had a fantastic time. The wine was from a region in Italy we'd stayed in together. The food was excellent, and our ordering harmonious, meaning that I was allowed to control most of the decision-making, to such an extent I was even able to gracefully acquiesce on an appetizer I would not have chosen. It had stopped raining by the time we were ready to leave, which felt like 10 but was really 7:30, and as a bonus, we were going to come home and find all three of our collective children in bed, asleep, avoiding any and all potential bedtime fuss.

Jet-lag, 3-year-old Eva's, thwarted this plan, however, and when she came out of the bedroom to see her parents, Lily, who had been sleeping, woke up to see me standing in the doorway. I told her I'd lie down with her for a few minutes, and so I did, on the trundle bed, abandoned by Eva, as Annika stood up in her crib looking down on us, saying one of her three best words--"Hiiii"--over and over again. And as we lay there together, Lily put her arm across my chest, and I put my hand over her small hand, absent-mindedly, willing myself to stay awake. My mind started in on the usual laundry lists: what I had to do later in the evening, what I had to do tomorrow, what I had to do over the weekend, where I would get my broken-down boots resoled and how much it would cost, and--finally--Annika quieted down and Lily, I thought, was asleep.

I opened my eyes,thought about how best to get up without disturbing her, when she whispered to me. "Mama? I like the way it feels with your hand on mine." I almost missed it. And for what? The turning wheels of low-grade anxiety, the stupid soleless boots.

"Me too," I whispered back. And closed my eyes again.