We’d hardly exited the van, when my daughter took my hand and said longingly, “let’s just shop for everything we need.”
But the truth was…we didn’t need much. We’d just left a half-assembled lasagna hanging out on the kitchen counter because I’d forgotten the ricotta cheese.
I’d asked quickly, “you want to come?” And with little ado, my daughter and I had zipped away for cheese.
But the urgency of our trip never never struck my daughter. Nor did the fact that it was already seven thirty p.m. and eating homemade lasagna sometime before everyone went to bed had been a notion.
Instead my daughter asked to push the cart, to spot the cheese, to count the coins, and to carry the bag.
By which time I realized I couldn’t remember the last time the two of us had gone anywhere together…alone.
Some time after nine p.m. our lasagna made it to the table.
But some time before that, my daughter and I had puttered home slowly–just the two of us. And it’d been worth it…
every extra minute.