telling stories.
My mom told me something recently, and I only just remembered.
My parents have an odd, but adorable relationship. They met when my mom was first out of college; my Dad was actually trying to pick up her roommate, got rejected, and asked my mom out instead. He's classy; she's a risktaker. Dating a dude you meet in a parking lot is pretty ballsy (which, if you think about it, should have warned my dad early on just how ballsy). This was November 1968. They started dating, exchanged Christmas gifts; a bong for my dad ("What a funny looking lamp," my Nana remarked, before someone explained), a sweater (I think?) for my mom. They were engaged sometime in December or January, Mom moved in to Dad's apartment in April, and they were married in June. As my mom says, "when you know, you know. He had a job, an apartment, and a car. I was sold." She was ready to settle down; he looked pretty appealing compared to the random and unreliable musicians and artists she'd been dating before (this was the 60's, after all).
My dad didn't ask my mom to marry him. She asked him. I know this story pretty well, having heard it first sometime in middle school or high school. They were sitting, eating, chatting. They'd been dating a while, and Dad kept using language like "when we". My mom, being the smooth, suave, subtle woman she is, asked him when he was planning to ask her to marry him. My father, being the smooth, suave, and observant man he is, blinked at her for a few minutes. That was pretty much it. They were going to dinner at my Nana's house later that night (my father's mother, for those playing along at home), and when he got there, my dad asked his mom if she had anything resembling an engagement ring. Since my mom had been the one to ask him, he hadn't had much time to go ring shopping, you see. After digging around to "see what she could find", my Nana produced an antique diamond filigree ring (not this one, obviously, but similar) and a matching brooch. That was my mother's engagement ring; she's not exactly the filigree type, so she doesn't wear it much.
The part that my mother told me recently that I hadn't known before and had me laughing aloud was that she asked my father whether he was intending on proposing in the middle of an IHOP. My parents got engaged at the International House of Pancakes. They decided to start a life together over waffles and short stacks, side of sausage, covered with maple syrup and strawberries from a can, with burnt coffee to wash it down.
That was forty years ago. They considered having children, immediately dropped the idea for fifteen years; then they remembered that 'thing they were supposed to do' in their thirties was procreate, and had my brother and I. We're twenty-seven and twenty-four (for another few months, at least), and my parents 40th wedding anniversary is this June.
This past Christmas, my dad offered to make brunch for my brother and I, and we decided to have french toast. It was delicious, and there was a leftover stack of gooey, buttery slices just waiting to be eaten. My mom succumbed and finished them off as I sat at the table in my pajamas, drinking my orange juice. They always say breakfast is the most important meal of the day; for our family, I wonder if it means a little something more. Maybe it's just the stories, and maybe it's just my penchant for eggs and hash browns, but they're our stories, and that's what matters.
I probably should have waited and posted this in June, but it spilled out now. But then, that's the way stories always get told, anyway.
My parents have an odd, but adorable relationship. They met when my mom was first out of college; my Dad was actually trying to pick up her roommate, got rejected, and asked my mom out instead. He's classy; she's a risktaker. Dating a dude you meet in a parking lot is pretty ballsy (which, if you think about it, should have warned my dad early on just how ballsy). This was November 1968. They started dating, exchanged Christmas gifts; a bong for my dad ("What a funny looking lamp," my Nana remarked, before someone explained), a sweater (I think?) for my mom. They were engaged sometime in December or January, Mom moved in to Dad's apartment in April, and they were married in June. As my mom says, "when you know, you know. He had a job, an apartment, and a car. I was sold." She was ready to settle down; he looked pretty appealing compared to the random and unreliable musicians and artists she'd been dating before (this was the 60's, after all).
My dad didn't ask my mom to marry him. She asked him. I know this story pretty well, having heard it first sometime in middle school or high school. They were sitting, eating, chatting. They'd been dating a while, and Dad kept using language like "when we". My mom, being the smooth, suave, subtle woman she is, asked him when he was planning to ask her to marry him. My father, being the smooth, suave, and observant man he is, blinked at her for a few minutes. That was pretty much it. They were going to dinner at my Nana's house later that night (my father's mother, for those playing along at home), and when he got there, my dad asked his mom if she had anything resembling an engagement ring. Since my mom had been the one to ask him, he hadn't had much time to go ring shopping, you see. After digging around to "see what she could find", my Nana produced an antique diamond filigree ring (not this one, obviously, but similar) and a matching brooch. That was my mother's engagement ring; she's not exactly the filigree type, so she doesn't wear it much.
The part that my mother told me recently that I hadn't known before and had me laughing aloud was that she asked my father whether he was intending on proposing in the middle of an IHOP. My parents got engaged at the International House of Pancakes. They decided to start a life together over waffles and short stacks, side of sausage, covered with maple syrup and strawberries from a can, with burnt coffee to wash it down.
That was forty years ago. They considered having children, immediately dropped the idea for fifteen years; then they remembered that 'thing they were supposed to do' in their thirties was procreate, and had my brother and I. We're twenty-seven and twenty-four (for another few months, at least), and my parents 40th wedding anniversary is this June.
This past Christmas, my dad offered to make brunch for my brother and I, and we decided to have french toast. It was delicious, and there was a leftover stack of gooey, buttery slices just waiting to be eaten. My mom succumbed and finished them off as I sat at the table in my pajamas, drinking my orange juice. They always say breakfast is the most important meal of the day; for our family, I wonder if it means a little something more. Maybe it's just the stories, and maybe it's just my penchant for eggs and hash browns, but they're our stories, and that's what matters.
I probably should have waited and posted this in June, but it spilled out now. But then, that's the way stories always get told, anyway.