I got an odd-sized packet it the mail this week. I didn't have to open it to know exactly what it was. There were pink flowers on the envelope, and a scrolling font jazzed up our numbered street address into something almost gallery-worthy.
The contents of the envelope confirmed what I already knew: two of my very dear friends are marrying each other. Theirs is a true story-book romance. Boy meets girl. Falls desperately in love. Girl desperately resists. (For years.) Girl realizes she loves boy. SHE falls in love. He pinches himself. Realizes it's for real, and the rest is history.
I giddily ripped open the envelope, and was so happy to see their names in print! I wouldn't miss this for the world. But then I got to the bottom of the invite. Wedding ceremony to be held in..... Disneyland!
What on earth?
Where on earth?
Well, hello, the happiest place on earth!
Of course. It's so appropriate it makes me sick.
I shrieked at my husband. "Honey, look! We got a wedding invitation!" He looked at me as if I was telling him that a six hundred pound gorilla and his four hundred pound girlfriend were coming over for a rousing game of musical chairs. "No way," he said. "I'm all wedding-ed out."
Of course he was. We'd been to two family weddings in as many weeks. In the wedding party for both of them. The first involved a diaper rash from Hades, 35 degree weather, and abandonment on a dirt road on a gulf island. The second placed my introverted husband behind the podium for the night as emcee. No diaper rash this time, but a full-speed wrecking ball of a child who wanted immediate access to the dance floor (including interrupting the bride and groom's first dance) and unlimited access to the chocolate wedding cake.
"I can't do it again," he said, arms folded in defiance. "I just can't."
I tried to entice him. "The wedding's in California. But don't panic. Babies are free on the airplane until they're two! It'll be like we're SAVING money if we go to Disneyland now instead of two years from now like we planned!"
"What? Airplane? Disneyland? What kind of wedding is this!?" my husband sputtered. I was losing the argument. I could see it. His eyes were glazing over. His hand instinctively reached for the wallet in his back pocket (no doubt to protect his credit card from my crazed plans.)
"I'm not going to Disneyland! You're crazy!" he laughed.
"Well, fine then, I'll go!" I smiled.
"Go ahead." he dared me.
"I will! And I'm taking Little Man." I folded my arms across my chest to match his.
Silence. Hmm. Silence is good. It's not a no. I can work with that.
Kevin just shook his head and smiled. "Have a good time," he snorted. "I'm sure he'll *love* the airplane ride!"
Oh good God. That's right. Air travel. With my projectile vomiting, won't sit still long enough to sneeze LAP INFANT child. My child who recently perfected his vocal impersonation of a dying peacock. My child whose favourite word is "down" and favourite game is "Momma chase me!?" The two of us. On an airplane alone at 30,000 feet. I broke into a cold sweat.
"I can handle it," I lied.
I don't think he believed me.
But we're going. And I am certifiably insane. I went to book travel insurance and inquired about mental health exclusions. The insurance agent almost inhaled the wad of gum she'd been snacking on. "Pardon me, mental health?" she stammered.
"Well, yes. If I go insane chasing after my child in Disneyland, will the coverage pay for my tranquilizers?" As if on queue, we watched my son wiggle his way out of his stroller's five point "child-proof" safety harness and throw himself head-first towards the office fish tank.
The insurance lady put down her nail file and leaned over the desk. "I don't know about the tranquilizers, but have you considered getting some hard liquor at the Duty Free?"