Seventeen years ago today my husband and I said "I do." But the truth was we didn't. We didn't have any clue.
At 10 a.m. August 8 1992 he was tipping his last ten dollar bill to the best waiter at the Glenwood, a man who is still a server at that great restaurant. At 10 a.m. August 8 1992 I was sipping a cup of tea and having my hair set.
The fairy lights and ivy were strung around the reception hall. The flowers hadn't been delivered yet but the caterers were hard at work. My mother was rearranging the seating (again). My fiance's grandmother was slyly hanging a pinata in the middle of our English-garden-on-a-budget decor. White lights, white roses, white candles, baby's breath and hot pink paper mache. It worked.
We had no clue.
And after the I dos? We were married for nearly eight years before our first baby was born. There was so much time for eating in tablecloth restaurants, for traveling, for hot rod cars (that part wasn't me) and classic pickups and cycling and spending the grocery cash on antique chairs (that part was me). Besides, who needed grocery cash when one could just eat out?
But we had no clue. No clue whatsoever how much crazy fun this would be. As I type, my husband of all these years is moving a mountain of Maple wood from one side of the yard to the other in preparation for approximately 30 guests expected tomorrow. (That should be interesting with our current water situation.) Our oldest daughter is at equitation. (See how not-controlling I am? I'm blogging while she's riding.) Our youngest is napping and the middle two are changing the ring tones on all the phones. (If I'm not cracking the whip on party prep, they're sure to cover the most important items. Clearly.)
It makes me wonder about the next seventeen years. And even though I've been told my imagination gets away with me, I'm sure I have no idea what fun is in store.
Especially for tonight! (We have date night. I bought a new dress. I think it might be at a tablecloth restaurant.)