by Michael Butson

Created on: June 07, 2008   Last Updated: July 21, 2008

CRAYONS AND CRACKERS

I have developed an appreciation for the animals that eat their young. This is my story.

Tamara and I had a long week. Our days start early and we don't pick up the kids until six P.M. As we buckled Nick's car seat he said, "Miss Dee teached me to use the big potty for pee-pees."

Miss Dee once called Tamara at work to say, "Nick took his first steps today. All the assistants were so tickled."

My son had a life-changing, momentous event, we missed it-and the assistants were tickled.

Usually, fatigue is stronger than the guilt, so Tamara makes a quick dinner, while I put a video on. Occasionally one of us will read to them. But not tonight.

We were about to enter a new frontier, with the ignorant bliss that defines young parents and trusting dogs. "Let's go out to dinner," said Tamara. The prospect of being pampered, while the children look cute and converse peacefully seemed too good to pass up.

" How about Angelo's?" I replied.

A few years ago, Jay Leno quadrupled his popularity when he interviewed Hugh Grant, shortly after his arrest for soliciting a prostitute. "What the hell were you thinking?" he asked.

Angelo's was exactly like I remembered; dramatic and inviting, with Italian opera wafting through the air-sort of a black and white movie ambiance. As Angelo greeted us, Sis whispered to me, quite loudly, "Daddy, why does he look so sad?"

"Shhh!" I said.

Ten years ago, while Tamara and I were still smitten, Angelo's was our special place. I especially loved the old wine bottles that were displayed in the quaint lobby. Each empty bottle was mounted on a small stand, along with a photo of a newly engaged couple.

"Mommy! Daddy!" shouted Nick. With a move that Spiderman would envy, I leaped to grab him, just as the entire shelf of bottles was about to crash to the ground. He was clutching one of the bottles with a candy-holding death grip.

"Mommy, Daddy!" he repeated, as he shoved the bottle in my face. Mounted on the face was a picture of Tamara and I, eight years ago.

Angelo, gentleman that he was, handed Tamara the bottle, and then hurried us to a cavernous booth by the kitchen. I tried to ignore the arm waving and animated gestures as he walked away.

"You kids better behave or Daddy will take you to the car," said Tamara.

"We'll be good Mommy," they both chimed. The look in their big round eyes seemed gleaming.

Michael had been an Angelo's waiter for many years. He was tall and thin, with slick black hair, and a tight ponytail. "Look Sissy. Bad guy!"

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