That is my husband, faithful paternal spirit to our brood, up before the rest of the house stirs, cleaning up last night's chaos and repairing the hinge of the cupboard door that came loose and planning ahead for the day. These full grown children seem content to wrap themselves in blankets and gaze at screens, phone, computer and TV screens, with a couple books thrown in there for good measure. Everyone breaks out into storytelling from time to time, laughing at the memories, leaving me laughing too, but struck by how differently we all remember the same events. My daughter is the only one who felt a little stir crazy today, so she captured a couple of the others and went on a supermarket excursion. She has to bake for cooking club tomorrow at her school. She is the club president this year, and she's increased the membership from five souls last year to 15 dedicated cooks this year. Monday cooking club meetings are serious business. You can tell by the Sunday night mixing and stirring that happens without fail. While she cooks, my niece and her sweetheart are keeping her company, everyone chatting happily at the kitchen counter, with the two of them pausing every so often to gaze into each others eyes and playfully nuzzle and tease each other and giggle in their delight. My son and his girlfriend are pretzeled on the couch, doing much the same thing. My husband and I look over their heads at each other and smile. We were them, once. It's nice to remember.