All I want for Valentine’s Day is to sleep until 9 a.m. and have breakfast served to me in bed.
Just putting it out there.
I’m happy to avoid a restaurant this year. Things haven’t been the same between me and restaurants since Henry arrived.
I used to regard eating out with the wide-eyed excitement of a child. Now I look at my wide-eyed child with the vacant look of a defeated adult. A table-for-two has little allure when your lunch companion has a penchant for tearing up napkins, overturning salt shakers and occasionally cawing like a seagull while wielding a slimy baby spoon like a drunk with a lighter at a Guns N’ Roses concert.
Until Henry pursues his degree in economics from Harvard we’ll probably never enjoy a civilized meal in public. And even then the experience will suck because he’ll be boring.