Life is populated with a collection of times when things simply must follow a perfect script, and a recent summit of future in-laws just had to be one of them, but nobody told Caden.
John, our lone single son, in clear demonstration of his wisdom, intelligence, good judgment, and inexplicable good luck, fell in love with the amazing Amy. My dear bride, the saintly Susan, and I would be hard pressed to be more thrilled with John's choice.
We've had her in our home many times and have been consistently astonished at John's good fortune, but up until last week we had had only one brief, "hi and good-bye" opportunity to meet her mother Jean, and had never met her dad, Rob.
In an official and legal sense, there is no connection between the parents of the bride and the parents of the groom. However, in the process of marrying off six of our own widgets, we have come to realize there is a genuine need for a relationship between the future in-laws. Each of us is contributing a precious child to this union, and somewhere down the matrimonial road, both couples will be the ancestors of some extraordinary grandwidgets. All of that means it is somewhere between wildly important and ragingly necessary that Susan and I forge a positive relationship with Amy's folks.
When it comes to making a good first impression, I have no worries about my Susan. This lady can charm a rampaging flood if necessary, but first impressions are not always my strong suit. So when the morning of the "summit meeting" arrived, I made a point of not dressing in the dark, which is where I usually do my clothing selections. I picked out my best purple shirt and black slacks, and a tie I knew went well with the combo because Susan had told me they were complimentary. As long as you weren't looking too closely, or being particularly critical, I was looking pretty good.
Scheduling around my house is always a little hectic so, on the night of "THE DINNER" we also had our first chance to see Anthen, our 7-year-old grandwidget, play in one of his first baseball games. Since the game and the summit didn't overlap, we jumped on the happy opportunity to see Anthen play. Beyond the sheer joy of watching a collection of mini-baseball players abuse the national pastime, Susan and I would also have a chance to see Anthen's little sister, Sydnie, and their baby brother, Caden.
I arrived at the game before Susan and decided to exercise the grandfatherly prerogative of sweeping little Caden into my arms. Snuggled against my right side, the squirming little bundle of drooly-faced smiles was giving his grandpa an entire load of warm fuzzies. Unfortunately he was also depositing a load of an entirely different sort down the side of my shirt. A veritable stream of malodorous yellow-brown goo washed over my right side.
Dana, Caden's dear mom, discovered the disaster at about the time I began to wonder if a nearby septic tank was overflowing. She got some "wipes" to help clean my shirt, but while the stain pretty much vanished, the fragrance lingered. I'm no gourmet, but I was pretty sure essence of Port-a-Potty was not going to go well with dinner, particularly not for an in-law summit.
After the game ended in a tie - as I get it all the games in this league end in ties - Susan and I dashed home, where I stripped off the offended and offending clothing, gave my side a quick pass with a wash cloth, and drenched myself in enough Brut to smother the smell of a rendering plant.
With that, we took off to the restaurant.
I suppose the Brut worked, or maybe Rob and Jean were just too gracious to take official notice that I smelled like a teen-age boy's bedroom on prom night. However it worked, the wedding is still on, and Amy reported her folks really liked us.
I wonder if the inability to smell runs in their family? Oh well, who cares!