It is Saturday. Tax-free weekend. We get up, get out, get some back to school clothes and stop for lunch. We sit in a booth on the open air patio. Fans blowing, reggae playing. My husband orders pink lemonade. Then a rock song comes on. "Doesn't it sound like she's saying 'lemonade'?" he asks. I channel my inner rocker and sing along, "Lemonade, lemonade, la la la" and my 7-year-old laughs, in disbelief. So I say, "The thing you need to know, Dillon... your dad and I are actually fun, when we're not busy trying to keep you guys from acting like clowns." And then I laugh, not believing I said that out loud. But it seems to grant us about 30 minutes of non-clownlike activity. We enjoy a peaceful lunch, relaxing even. Then Cate wants to stand on the table. Blake crawls around in an empty booth. Time to go. We pay the check, and after Shawn and the kids head back to the car, I sit for a moment, sucking in the very last drop of my Diet Coke, the sound of the fans and the music.