Friday, December 11th 2015
When I open my eyes this morning my daughter is showing me a giant costume ring on one finger and a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile.
“I got married!” she says.
“Wow! Overnight?” I said, Who did you marry? Or was it to yourself?”
The blushing bride leans in to my ear and whispers, “My brother!”
We lookeover at him, konked out on the pillow in the pre-dawn haze, mouth agape, snoring faintly. We giggle.
“Does he know anything about this?”
Thankfully I remember myself at that age, declaring I would marry my dad when I grew up, and so far we haven’t had any tragedies remotely Greek in nature, so I’m not too worried.
“That’s fine when you’re four,” I tell her, “But when you’re older you’ll need to find someone else to marry.” And then I catch myself, “Except you might not need anyone at all, who knows?”
“No I want to be married,” she says, “I might need someone to cook for me, because I might be a horrible cook like you!”
More giggling. And yes, the truth hurts, but man that girl is funny (and smart).
I explain that won’t happen because she cooks with Daddy all the time and she’s already a great cook (!), but that she can get married when she grows up or whatever she wants.
Here is the happy couple later that morning waiting for the bus. Like most males, the Boy seems to have no idea what hit him. Take my husband for example, who had no idea what was happening when I married him. I guess that’s one bonus of marrying a man while prisoner in a fog of chemo; he pretty much has to do whatever you say, such as cook wonderfully for the rest of your natural lives together. Ahhh. ♡