It’s a gorgeous, ever-so-slightly crisp Friday night in November. The kind of night that, a year ago, I would have likely skipped out onto the town for drinks and a good dinner.

But that was then and this is now.

Now, on this Friday in November, we hang out in the apartment while the mini-munchkin sleeps. Dinner delivered; Harry Potter on the TV; lazing about in pajamas and long socks. It’s not a bad life. There’s a sort of romance to it, if you know where to look for it.