As we speak, I am cooking a pot roast. It's in the crock pot. It smells like adults live in our house. In fact, I was very confused when I woke up from my nap that somehow I woke up at my grandparents' house, in Maryland, in 1987.
I think I will greet Ryan at the door wearing heels and pearls and carrying his favorite cocktail in one of those heavy, smoke colored Old Fashioned glasses with the diamond grid on the bottom and a ship etched into the side. Then I will shoo a freshly bathed and impeccably dressed Charlie off to play quietly so Ryan can read his paper while I put the little white hats on 'the roast' before serving. Where do the little white hats go? This particular roast has nothing sticking out of it that looks particularly hat-worthy.
Or maybe (like last night) I will hand him Charlie fresh from a time-out then flit back into the kitchen without so much as a peck on the cheek muttering appologies about the huge mess and the fact that dinner won't be ready for another half hour before asking him if he would mind running out after he gives Charlie a bath because I forgot to buy milk.
At any rate, nesting has taken a tasty turn in this house.