So yes. Hubs and I rang in eighteen years of marital bliss yesterday. We celebrated by having Mexican takeout at home, because it isn’t our first rodeo; we understand that Thing 2 and restaurants don’t necessarily go together, without someone being thrown out. Thing 2 threw guacamole and corn off of his highchair, which was great, because I actually vacuumed yesterday.
Before his food fight happened.
Today, Hubs and I are celebrating our second day of anniversary hoopla, because listen. We were married on July 1st. I know this, because I planned that wedding and mailed out all the invitations, and when I made reservations on chairs and ordered flowers, I told everyone that I’d need these things for July 1st. You know? My wedding day? And then we got married, and the angels sang a rousing chorus of hallelujahs, because Hubs had picked an incredibly wonderful girl to be his wife. Hubs suddenly had partial ownership of a 1982 Honda Accord that he didn’t even like, and a black and white kitten named Bug that was, perhaps, a little slow upstairs.
(As in, I’m not sure Bug’s brain fired on all of its cylinders, but I loved him.)
When it came time for our witnesses to sign the legal documents saying, “Yep! We saw them get married, and we’ll write our names down to prove it,” things went awry. The pastor was in such a hurry to get to our buffet of little sandwiches and potato salad and THAT FANCY CAKE, that he wrote July 2nd on the marriage certificate. Sister and Brother, who served as the maid of honor and the best man, were arguing over who was going to catch the bouquet and the garter when they were thrown, and neither one of them actually read the legal document to which they signed their names.
(How many times has your attorney told you? READ ALL THE BORING PARAGRAPHS!! Check the dates! Check the spellings!)
And that is how it happened. For all legal purposes, including tax returns and the adoption of baby boys, Hubs and I were married on July 2nd.
Only we weren’t.
But legal America says we were.
I’m sure Hubs and I could have petitioned the courts to redo our marriage certificate, but that seemed like a lot of work. We were young and in love, and we had other work to do, which involved hauling an old Oldsmobile engine and four car doors out of the backyard at our house, which the previous owner had left there.
Along with fourteen Goodyear tires that were all bald, and the hood to something that might have been a Ford Pinto.
Anyway, it’s just a good excuse to have fancy dinners on back-to-back nights, if you ask me, so Hubs and I go on ahead and own it:
WE HAVE TWO ANNIVERSARIES EVERY SINGLE YEAR.
Go ahead and be envious.
Having two anniversary dates has absolutely nothing to do with tonight’s blog post, but I thought I’d throw that out there. I’d also like to say that sometimes I wish I had two birthdays each year. Except… you know… I wouldn’t want to age on both of them. But I would love the Starbucks gift cards and birthday cake to roll in on back-to-back dates, that’s for holy sure!
One night last week, when Hubs was working late and I was manning the fort as a single parent, I loaded the boys up in the Suburban. We went to watch Cousin L play softball. Softball is a sport that I rocked at. I couldn’t play the violin; I couldn’t sing. I was lousy at free throws in basketball; I couldn’t do the splits well enough to be a cheerleader. But I could field a grounder at first base, step on the bag, and fling the ball to second for a double play that would make ESPN’s nightly sports highlight reel.
That’s why I enjoy watching L play some softball.
The only thing is… when you have Thing 2 in your family… sometimes you don’t get to actually WATCH the game, because you’re so busy keeping the baby out of the street, and telling him, “No, honey! You cannot steal hot dogs from these nice people! They don’t care if you want a bite or not, because they are strangers!”
I’d like to go on record and say that I trained for a marathon while we were at L’s ball game.
Because… yes! I ran that much, following my long-distance sprinter.
Thankfully, Mam was there to help out. She and Thing 2 found a basset hound who needed some loving and some scratching. The silly dog was plum thrilled to have Thing 2 hug him and pat him.
(Dear Hubs, I still want a basset hound. I don’t think mine would howl. Love, The Mrs.)
“Listen, L… if I rub my hands together, I want you to steal second. If I take my hat off and scratch my head, slide into second. If I cross my arms, pick up the foul ball and throw it at the pitcher. If I scratch my knee, it means I need sunflower seeds. If I kick some dirt around with my toe, you put the wheels on, and you get yourself all the way home!”
Sister’s Husband was born to coach girls’ sports.
I think Cousin L was thinking, “Sure, Dad. Kick some dirt and sunflower seeds. And do you know what? Wow! That girl playing third base for the other team has THE CUTEST headband on. I’m going to have to ask her where she bought it when we shake hands after the game.”
While L was busy hitting and catching and running and trying to remember her dad’s weird code of signals, The Littles were entertaining everyone behind the right field fence.
There was a nice family sitting near us. They had packed a picnic dinner of sandwiches, chips and fruit in their cooler. Thing 2 robbed them of forty-two potato chips, six cookies, and some cherries. They even gave him his very own red Solo cup for the water he begged off of them.
Thing 2 can survive in the wild on his own.
Unless, of course, someone swipes his binky and puts it in her mouth!
I’m pretty sure his attorney is going to get him off with a self defense plea. Little H had a good bite to the arm coming for thievery; Thing 2 just delivered it.
And look! The boy (age twelve) has done some growing in the past couple of months. He’s as tall as Sister these days.
Pa didn’t, which meant that Thing 2 went back to robbing snacks from random strangers.
Halfway through L’s softball game, Kellen showed up with his baseball team. They had the later game, and they were hanging out, waiting for their turn on the field. Kellen, being the kind soul that he is, gave Thing 2 full access to the bat bag.
Is it any wonder that this baby thinks he’s one, going on twelve? He’s ONE of the big boys. He’s in their gang.
And I love them both.
Everyone had a good time, though, and that’s what counts, right?
Unless you’re Hubs. He’ll say that no one in second place ever has a good time.
Hubs is what we like to call COMPETITIVE.
It’s why he has two anniversaries every year. That’s one more than every other husband has! Winner, winner! Chicken dinner!
Y’all have a happy Tuesday evening.