I vaguely remember the times of roses, champagne, intimate dinners and rodeo sex. Those times were followed by lulls in romance after children invaded my life like Hessians. But I wouldn't change a moment of it.

Contrary to what people might think, children lend a certain air of civility to adult life. Among many examples I could give is that my cuss quotient dropped dramatically after my first child was born. Creative substitutes, as well as old-fashioned standbys, rolled off my tongue whenever I got a burr in my britches. Out of nowhere, I invented "for-petie-pie-sakes" to substitute a variety of expletives. Drat, dang, and egads often punctuated my sentences. My children cleaned me up - gave me a civil tongue.

Dinnertime also changed. No longer did I flop myself in front of the TV, my table a wobbly tray. No longer did I stretch myself out on the couch, reading a book, munching on a bag of potato chips and calling it a meal. My children set me straight with a banquet of civility.

My children (other than the times I worked outside the home and things unraveled a bit) were reared in a home where we sat down as a family for dinner every night. The rule of thumb was dinner wasn't served until the last person arrived home. We ate lots of late night dinners. The table was always beautifully set and candles lit, even if I served macaroni and cheese and canned green beans.

The candles had a soothing effect, while the cloth linens, napkins coiled in rings, graced us with elegance. Now, this is not to say our dinners were stuffy. The only thing ever stuffy at our table was our annual Thanksgiving turkey. We had our pea tossing moments, and often when someone asked that the bread be passed, a roll would spiral the table like a football. Dinnertime was a time to partake in healthy sustenance and togetherness. Laughter and love reigned. (Well, most of the time - we weren't perfect.)

When Chase and Rachel were little, I once planned a special dinner for special guests. The day before, I presented them with a dilemma. I was uncertain what to cook. I asked, "What would you serve to special guests?" I kick myself for not remembering their responses, or what I prepared.

Early the next day, a Saturday, the children watched me set our dining room table with my finest porcelains, silvers and crystals. Because they were busy, busy children, I don't recall them inquiring who the special guests were going to be, or expressing any suspicions regarding the activity in my kitchen. It's easy to dupe children.

Well, of course, the children were my special guests. Think about how often we fawn over friends, acquaintances, or business associates with special dinners. It was a wonderful meal with a timeless message.

If you were to ask me what I missed most about David being away at college, it would be dinnertime.

By the time David was a teenager, I'd become an accomplished cook. The odds were against this happening because a gourmet gene is absent in my lineage. My beloved grandmother used to store photo albums and such in her oven. Her idea of a gourmet meal, and it worked, was to sprinkle paprika on her mashed potatoes. She owned a rare countenance of gentleness, warmth, and pluperfect dignity. I adored her. But she didn't cook.

Anyway, our house was small, especially the dining room. Because mealtimes were a special time for us, I transformed the living room, with its fireplace, into our dining room, and made the dining room into a sitting room. Made sense to me.

Every single night we sat in our expansive new dining room with a crackling fire (when appropriate) and dined. Yup, we didn't just eat, we dined. And I swear to you, with no embellishment, our dinners sprawled for one, two or more hours. Conversation sang, laughter ruled. We regaled our joys, comforted our sorrows. Friendly fire peppered conversation whenever it turned to our diverse politics. We discussed books, art, movies, sports and philosophy - sometimes all in one night.

Closure to this special time usually came when David remembered his unfinished schoolwork. Each evening he ritualistically extinguished the candles, curlicues of smoke scorched the air with a uniquely pleasant scent.

Over the years, I've saved the colorful candle stubs. They are tumbled in a crockery bowl in my kitchen. The memories still burn bright.