We met up with friends at the farmers market this morning, then had lunch at the French bistro nearby run by a French chef and his American wife. It's a tiny, casual place (at least during the day) and the food is always great. Both owners also work the register and will bring out the food, so they're very visible, and on a few occasions Zach's gotten up the nerve to speak to him in French. Today we noticed that the chef had a friend there, another French man, and as we ate our lunch the 2 of them sat at a corner table, chatting and sampling from one of the open bottles of house wine. It was like a scene straight out of the village restaurant in Switzerland. I would have taken a picture to document that classic moment, if it had not felt rude to do so.
In the afternoon I left Zach home with D while I went to a coffee shop to get some alone time in, and to try to sort through some old pictures. As I browsed photos from D's first several months of life I felt a strange tugging at my heartstrings, remembering what he used to look like then, those moments and milestones I'd documented, little details like how I used to lay him on the floor and prop books and pictures all around for him to look at. I can't quite describe the feeling, but I imagine it's one that will become more familiar as time goes on and these memories further back in time.
I then got home after being gone not quite 2 hours, and the first thing Zach says to me as I walk in the door is, "Man, how do you stay home with him all day?!" ; )