Last night, my husband and I had a rare night out with friends. We had a few beers, some pizza, good conversation, then went downtown for a play. There’s nothing quite like hanging out with good friends…friends with whom you can discuss politics and religion, have differing views, then end up laughing about old Seinfeld clips a few minutes later. Friends who have seen you at your best and worst. Friends who have helped you when you’ve most needed them. Friends you could call anytime, day or night, and they’d be there for whatever reason. Friends you can’t even be embarrassed in front of, no matter how hard they might try to embarrass you.

We had a nice evening without the kids around. No noses or butts to wipe, no food to make that someone won’t want to eat, no baths to give, no crying, no injuries, no toys to clean up, and no arguments between siblings. As we were laughing over dinner, I couldn’t help but think how good it felt to be there.

When we got home, we paid the babysitter, let the dog out, checked e-mail, cleaned up the kitchen, and watched the news. We did all the boring, ho-hum stuff we always do. After I put on my pj’s, I went into my daughter’s bedroom like I do every other night. I tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead, and then went to my son’s room. I took about twenty toys and books out of his bed and kissed his forehead…but last night, instead of tucking him in, I climbed under the blanket with him.

And, as I snuggled up next to him and watched him sleep, I couldn’t help but think how good it felt to be there.

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