Tonight I sat around with my parents, brother, and future sister-in-law, listening to a tape we recorded for my grandmother when I was a little girl. We were a ridiculous, lovely family back then (and we still are), and so the tape included such highlights as my use of the word "unpredictable" at the age of 3, my fretting over forgetting to make a card for my uncle's birthday, an all-family rendition of "Children of the Heavenly Father," a refusal to recite a poem blamed on my imaginary friend, and a recounting of the plot of The Great Mouse Detective.
We moved on to dinner afterward. My family's long since given up trying to find a restaurant that serves "Lauren food." I'm a notoriously picky eater -- I'm better than I once was, when I went off to college with a roster of maybe five foods I enjoyed eating. I settled on pesto pasta, which I usually like, but what arrived at the table wasn't something I enjoyed. I finally passed a forkful over to my mom.
"Taste this and tell me why I don't like it."
She chewed slowly. "Too much basil." Exactly right.
Just an ordinary night, spent celebrating a 31st wedding anniversary with my family. Nothing too special. But when I think about how lucky I am to have them, it knocks the wind out of me.