My children are all asleep. The house is quiet, except for the swish of the dishwasher. The cat just brushed past my leg, then glided away, seeing I had the keyboard on my lap. I have the time to blog. I have the ability. I just don’t have the ideas.
(crickets)
See? Nothin’.
I think my mental energy is used up in preparing for the upcoming trip. All six of us are off to California, to witness the vows of my baby cousin Wesley and her intended, Jesse. (I think it’s Jesse. Yeah, Jesse. Right?)
Wesley getting married. Jeez, I still think of her as a chipmunk-cheeked four year old. Not that she’s that much older than that. She’s either 21 or 20, I’m not sure. All grown up…more or less. Not that I’m judging, not at all. If anyone knows, I know that getting married is a gamble. Maybe they’re too young. Actually, they’re definitely too young. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t have a wonderful, long and fulfilling marriage. My prayers will certainly be that they will.
I remember the day I got married. Dad and I were waiting to walk down the aisle when a family came in a little late. I had been a nanny for this family when I was in college. Their youngest was about six months old then, and that day he walked past me, a standard little boy of about four or five. I watched in amazement as they made their way to sit down.
“Dad,” I whispered, “I used to change his diapers!” He squeezed my hand and whispered back, “Big deal. I used to change yours.”
I guess you’re always young to someone.