Oh, so many years ago when I naively toed the line and bolted in response to the gun blast that ushered in the frenetic race of my reproductive years, who could have guessed I had finally found an athletic event at which I could perform? No one.
Having babies was a marathon I was apparently built to run. So I did. Every time Baby X hit twelve months and the first fluff of fuzz began to fill in the top o' the pate, I frantically rushed to put the old, barely cool oven back to good use.
Fine. Good. Don't take the high chair or the baby bed down for ten years. That's okay. Keep the diaper dudes rolling in big bucks and the formula franchises fat and happy. Done. Sleep about five hours a week, and that with at least three uninvited bodies squished in the middle of the bed. Got it.
I was young. I could handle five birthday parties a year. No problem. Put my head down, keep my eyes blearily focused on the eighteen inches of road right in front of me and just go. Never mind what the future might have in store. I had five kids in eight years--how bad could it be?
Three weddings in eighteen months. That's how bad.
Wedding Number 1 was duly documented in a relatively timely blog post less than forty-eight hours following the blessed event. Given that Wedding Number 3 was celebrated a few short weeks ago, I thought it high time to turn my attention to the poor middle child of all these nuptials.
These two kids practically grew up at my kitchen table. They had so much in common and seemed to fit so well together, I once opined it was a shame they had met too early in life. So much for my maternal wisdom.
High school graduation. Check.
College memories made. Check.
Suddenly, lo and behold, the time was nigh. The football warrior was ready to take a knee, and thus he bravely approached the not-so-unsuspecting seat of paternal power, who uttered, without a hint of irony even after five years of growing-up togetherness, "This is a bit more accelerated than I had anticipated."
And just like that we found ourselves deep in the bowels of Lost River Cave setting up for the party of a lifetime, as rapid waters were rising and dire warnings that we might have to evacuate lock, stock and barrel, at the exact moment our soiree was getting underway, were being flung about like confetti.
I grabbed the groom by his shirt sleeve and said, "Groom, call the bride. You guys have a decision to make."
They did what they always do--put their heads together, hunkered down and said, "Let's do it." So we did.
A little Motown and a red towel-waving preacher
Lots of pretty girls and good looking fellas
A dance with dear old dad
And a Big Red fox trot
Followed by a toast from the sibs
And this new little household was ready to rock and roll. A few short weeks later they were packing up and heading on down the road to start their next great chapter together--trading in Big Red for some Big Blue and setting up camp with the helpful hands of lots of folks who were awfully sad to see them go and awfully proud of all they had done and all they most certainly were going to do.
Young? Maybe. Accelerated? Depends on who's keeping track of time. Ready for life?
After watching these two at my kitchen table, at their own kitchen table, on bright sunny days and on not-so-hot days when the going might not be as easy as they always make it look, you bet.
