It takes a long time to become young. ~Pablo Picasso
This past month, I, along with my husband, daughter, 5.5 month old grandson, and a big appetite, headed on down the highway to have a birthday lunch at a fifties-inspired diner. We were enjoying the scenery on an unusually warm autumn day. Our little grandbaby, smiling and laughing, was having a good time blowing raspberries for gramps. No one could have orchestrated a better birthday celebration. Throw a baby into the mix and suddenly, there is whole new meaning to this journey in life. Instead of downing a glass or two of wine in an over-priced restaurant, I stood in the crowded aisle of a small town truck stop among other diner patrons and bustling staff while holding a restless baby boy, as he fixedly stared at a fuzzy Halloween tarantula, dangling at the end of a taped string. I don’t feel old, because I’m keeping company with a little man who will reach over, place his tiny hand on my arm, and direct a gaze as if to say, I like you, lady.