Bryan and I are getting married.
For most women, newly engaged, that seems a rather subdued statement.
Not even an exclamation point or four.
What you have to understand is that we’ve been talking about it for months. Both as giddy, idiotic lovebirds swooning over each other, completely twitterpated and as mature, forward thinking grown-ups who understand the magnanimity of what we are discussing.
For both of us, marriage is not something to take lightly. I have one behind me already and I’m not eager to watch another one crumble at my feet. He’s thirty and has remained unmarried. (You should have heard his friends when he said he was getting “hitched”…his words, clearly not mine…you might have been able to castrate each one of them right then and there and they would not have noticed. Apparently I’m engaged to the Lone Fucking Ranger of the dating/marriage world.)
Plus, there’s Abbi and that introduces whole new realms of commitment for both of us. It’s not just entering a marriage, it’s changing the entire family dynamic for all parties involved. Thus, we had discussed it over and over again, dreamily, seriously and all the ranges of emotions that span the gap between the two.
However in discussing came all the glorious bits of planning. The little planning nazi in my head wanted to go ballistic. And she did. Bryan hadn’t even “popped the question” and I was creating Pinterest boards and budget shopping and gathering hot glue & spray paint. One of the ideas we quickly agreed to was the general aversion to spending gobs of money on flowers. After a bit of experimentation I figured out how to make origami flowers with sparkling brooch centers for my bouquet and scrap chiffon flowers with sparkly buttons for centers. (I like sparkly bits.) Having nothing else to quell the bug to start arranging I figured there was no harm in gathering all those sparkly bits I would need.
Abigail helped me shop and was particularly impressed when she got to help choose rings to use for the bouquet from the massive display at the dollar jewelry store. She zipped around the large table, grabbing rings and showing me her discoveries. She was so pleased when I accepted one of her findings and added it to the pile of rings I would wire into the centers of the paper flowers. It was a good day for a five year old.
Shortly after that Bryan took me engagement ring shopping. After a bit of due diligence at various stores and enduring the mild pressure of sales clerks behind the counters, we stumbled upon an emerald setting that we were both drawn to. After we simultaneously go “OOOH! I like THAT one!” and pointed to the same ring, he purchased it then and there. I knew I couldn’t have it as it had to be shipped off to be sized and cleaned. Plus, he had this notion of proposing “the right way.” He wanted the setting and timing and dropping down to one knee; the whole kit and kaboodle. (Don’t get me wrong, the fact that he wanted that for us to share as a memory is one of the most romantic things ever. But I have serious instant gratification issues. I don’t wait well. I did wait. But not well.)
Before turning over my beautiful ring to the clerk, I snapped a picture with my phone. Because that’s what you do. You take pictures of stuff. I sent it to several friends, including my mom who had Abigail with her at that point. My mom showed my daughter a picture of the ring and said “Look at Momma’s pretty ring!” My daughter’s response?
“Is she gonna put it in a flower?”