13 minutes ago
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
My wedding china (and other formerly important stuff)
Looking back, it's amazing we didn't break up over the wedding china. I'd insisted Dave participate in the bridal registry. He'd dutifully trail along to various department stores as I picked out towels, small appliances, vases and platters, posh salt and pepper shakers. I buzzed around, excited by thoughts of the wedding, the home we'd be setting up, our future; Dave just wanted to know when we could go have dinner. Choosing the china nearly broke him. We hadn't had a formal set in my own home growing up, and I wasn't sure about any of it—pattern? Color? 12 pieces? 8 pieces? Did I definitely need the gravy boat?
Dave finally lost it at Michael C. Fina. "I don't care what we eat off! The floor would be FINE!" he said in the most annoyed tone of voice I'd ever heard him use. I got the hint. But I still made him pick out serving utensils and, yep, we got the gravy boat. I was beyond Bridezilla—I was Brideosaurus Rex.
I was thinking about that day tonight as I put away the china I'd taken out for our Thanksgiving feast, the set I hadn't used since Max was born. It seems mind-boggling that I'd found picking dishes to be a stress-making task. Dishes.
I'm sure it's this way for plenty of parents. We look back at pre-kid times and marvel at how "carefree" life was and the trivial stuff we obsessed over and we think, Wow, what fluffheads we were. As a mom of a kid with disabilities, I'm sure I romanticize life then even more. It all seems so lightweight compared to the heavyweight concerns I have now. Although the gravy boat still gets me a little excited.
I finished stacking the dishes and shut the closet door. Max was hanging in the living room; I scooped him up to get him ready for bed, and he nestled his head in my neck and breathed in, that sweet thing he does when he's content. And then, I wasn't thinking about anything else except the pleasures of my present.
How about you: What kind of things get you sentimental about your former life?
Posted by Ellen Seidman at 12:10 AM