Then Comes Marriage

Oh, what a weekend! So much, so much, so much--best captured in list form:

1. You turned one. We put a candle in a cupcake and sang to you. I put frosting on my fingertip and shoved it into your mouth. I thought you would be pleased. You were disturbed.

2. John and Anna got married! Anna wore a lovely dress with an ivory sash around her waist. John walked around in his fancy suit, lime green tie, matching handkerchief--and a bottle of Gatorade in his hand. They were both dear and beautiful and sincere. Supposedly, babies don't remember anything that happens before the age of two, but I wish you could keep this wedding tucked into your memory, Thiz. There were a lot of tears; there were Subway sandwiches in the church social hall; there were carafes of wine and sparkling glasses on a green, green lawn beside a lake; there was orzo and salmon and kale; there were truffles that undid themselves inside your mouth. I slow danced with you next to the band. The saxophone player held the horn out to you and you retreated into my shoulder. After you went to bed, Daddy and I drank too much and slow danced close together and stood outside and let the stars fall down around us.

3. You have been tough. Shy. Needy. Pale with a glowing red nose. On the way to the wedding, I knelt on the front seat, back to the windshield, and poured a tiny white pellet of camomilla into the cap of a tiny homeopathic bottle. I fed you the pellet, hoped it would calm you, said a little prayer.

4. You and I wore dresses that felt a little like crepe paper.

5. You received: a birthday bear from Margaret, a jacket and doll from Becca, a CD from auntie Martha, books and a darling outfit from Anjuli, a book and pail from Trevor and Angie, and crabs from John and Anna. Crabs donated in your honor to a rural village in India. Later, you will understand why this is funny.