Sometimes when a baby is born and the men gather out back to smoke cigars in celebration, I’ll slip outside and ask for a puff. One of them will laugh and hand me his cigar. To them, seeing me smoke is as funny and odd as watching a dog play poker.

Last night, my husband fired one up in the backyard as we sat in cracked plastic lawn chairs, watching the kids splash in the baby pool. They’re way too big for it, but they’ve concocted this game where they stand on a lawn chair, swing on a trapeze bar and then land in the pool. It’s a lot tamer than it sounds.

As we watched them sporadically play and bicker, we split the cigar, passing it back and forth. The conversation flowed just as easily. We didn’t talk about property taxes or the tire that needs air. We talked about all the blogs we liked and writing in general. He told me I was writing the best draft of my novel he had ever read, and he’s read them all.

The lightening bugs came out and we shouted, “Look kids – see the farfallies?” That’s what Boy called fireflies when he was little.

Later I thought, “We should do that more often,” and then I remembered, oh yeah, smoking is bad for you. I started worrying about the effects on my lungs and if the evening cigar had taken any years off the back of my life.

Then I decided I didn’t care. It was worth it.