Godmother Weekend or Why Don't Dogs Like Barry Manilow?

Labor day weekend and the long anticipated Godmother weekend arrives. The baby and girls show up around midnight, but that doesn't keep us from staying up till 3 in the morning. As children our all nighters were executed under the guise of sleepovers. We'd whisper about our latest crushes, who said so and so, the latest antics of the Hambleton brothers. But we're adults now and we drink Cosmopolitans, snack on chicken salad and yell about our latests crushes.

To honor the baby's Latin heritage we dine at La Estrella Del Caribe a Puerto Rican themed restaurant. Radha devours Chuleta Frita - seasoned pork chops fried on the bone. Polly sighs over shrimp fajitas, sweetly sizzling and fragrant with non a traditional Mexican marinade. Patty savors the classic Arroz con Pollo and I happily crunch on Pernil - marbled with indecent amounts of pork butt fat. The baby tries all of it but prefers flirting with the male waiters to food. Hmmmm. Must come from her father's side of the family, since nothing takes precedence over food to a Ched female.

Given the Latin theme for the evening we come home and dance on the deck. Sophia takes turns in our arms as we attempt to Salsa and Merengue. The night serenades us.The 17 year cicadas make whirring Predator noises. A bird simpers in a tree sounding like an injured dog. The motorcycle boys whiz past on their way to Newark. Then the music starts, decently enough with Stan Getz's Brazilian jazz. Ella, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Night. Then it gets weird. Somehow Andrea Bocelli is followed by Meatloaf. And LL Cool J by Barry Manilow. Thy neighbor dog voices his displeasure at a weekend in New England. Then comes the Carpenters. We sing every song word for word of a 2 CD Carpenter complilation. Don't roll your eyes at me, you know the words to Top of the World. Sing it!

A chill enters the evening so we light a fire in the outdoor fireplace. In middle of the immolation of fallen tree branches and a tarot reading Sophia exlaims "Hi Mommy!" This being landmark as her only intelligible words thus far have been "Puppy?"

By noon Monday the girls have already left. No juice bobbies, milk bobbies. No manipulative toddling baby girl flopping around in her pink crocs with a stealthy dog eager to devour bits of bacon falling from bacon, avocado and tomato sandwiches. Just a very tired little white dog, sparkling sangria glasses and an empty house still throbbing with love.