I have always been curious as to how people identify the best day of their life. I know some folks insist it was the day they got married or perhaps the day they held their first child.
I found my own wedding stressful with the endless details, photography, and wiping lipstick off my front teeth. And having a baby? Let’s just say it was probably a bad idea for me to have ever watched “Rosemary’s Baby” prior to giving birth. I was a basket case without being able to partake in the medicinal calming properties of bourbon.
I am certainly thankful to be married to my husband, Joe, and delighted to be a mom, but the actual hours marking those occasions were not necessarily uber-happy ones. I would dare suggest they were steeped more in angst and subsequent relief than anything else.
There was relief that my husband didn’t leave me at the altar.
There was relief I didn’t trip down the aisle.
There was relief when our baby was born without a tail or cloven hooves.
Yesterday, Joe had an unexpected day off. Normally, I am the one who manages the lion’s share of getting kids up, showered, fed, and out the door for school. Having an extra set of hands to pour Cheerios and drive carpool was magical. It blew away my personal threshold for happiness.
Then Joe and I went out to breakfast.
Without the kids.
Neither one of us was required to help anyone cut their pancakes. My food was still warm. Not one child knocked his chocolate milk across my lap.
I could have died happy right then and there and without regret.
This last winter has been one of the worst in Chicago history, so when Joe suggested we take advantage of the sunny day and go golfing, I jumped at the chance.
My husband packed up my fancy Burberry golf bag (used exactly three times in 10 years) and we hit the greens.
Or is it “green”?
Possibly “golf field”?
Regardless, I hit my ball into a sand trap.
Then into a ravine.
I hit it so poorly, so often, that we went through Joe’s entire stash of mulligan balls.
And we laughed through it all.
By the time Joe and I collected our kids and headed out to yet another Little League game, we both remembered what it was that brought us together. It wasn’t the notion of ice sculptures and exquisite wedding favors. It wasn’t having an expensive dress or a flawless first dance. It was never about ribbon invitations or a designer cake.
It was about having a regular day like this.
A regular day that just happened to be perfect.
Still looks new, right?
Marianne is mother of three sons and the wife of a southside Irish fireman. She has learned that sometimes you're just too dumb to know what makes you happy. She blogs regularly at We Band of Mothers (webandofmothers.com) and curses with even greater frequency. Her material is written for the imperfect, the imprudent, and the impatient mothers who know that all this stuff is really very funny if you just give it a minute.
See more of Marianne's stories here.
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