My wife and I will be celebrating twenty years of marriage on the feast of St. Catherine of Siena. Twenty blissful years filled with long walks on the beach, candle-lit dinners, pina coladas, and making love at midnight...just like the song.
Okay, well, that's not quite true. Any time we walked on a beach we were too busy making sure our young Mark Spitz wannabees weren't drifting happily in the Gulf Stream toward Ireland. Candle-lit dinners were usually the result of power outages. Pina Coladas really gross me out. If I'm thirsty the last thing I want is coconut cream. And by midnight we're usually comatose and drooling, attracting passing tankers with our snoring.
We'll be celebrating together in the Big Apple this June, living it up in the City that Never Sleeps, because heaven knows we haven't slept much either.
As we look back over the last twenty years there has been a theme to our marriage that has defined our love affair succinctly: DIAPERS. One after another. To the dismay of our environmentally conscious friends we have single-handedly filled several landfills with disposable Huggies. The way we bought and carried them has changed over the years (our first had a Gucci bag with several diapers, twelve full changes of clothes, cashmere blankets - two, just in case, bottles, creams, lotions, perfumes, and lavendar-scented hypo-allergenic disposable comfort cloths. Our last? Mostly I carried one to the car in my teeth while i buckled the chocolate-smeared imp in the car seat with belts crusted with stuff that fell out of her mouth over the last several months). Finally, three weeks ago our little Teresa, age 3, graduated to Big Girl Undies. It was a moment of importance that I would not let go unnoticed: for nineteen years I have been looking at the unsavory end of many a sweet little cherub, smelling things that Fabreeze has not invented solutions for, and hoping against hope that my fingers wouldn't touch something gooshie. Now, praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost, it is over.
Enough reflection. It's time to make the sloppy joes before the children engorge themselves on string cheese while I blog.,. Teresa just came to my room to inform me that her sister has given her bubble gum. She opened her mouth and showed it to me. Yes, it was indeed bubble gum. What amazing intelligence displayed by the sixteen-year-old bubble gum giver. I will pull it out of the berber later. Hopefully today, as we gather to thank God for the food we are about to receive, ready to dig in to the family grub, Teresa will refrain from repeating those magical words we have heard so often the last three weeks: "Daddy, I pooped my pants."