Making memories

First, my son sent out Save the Dates for his forthcoming engagement to a bunch of his friends, leaving the dirty work of working out the arrangements to us. Since this is what parents are expected to do, we took it in our stride. But closer to date, he panicked, his married friends having put the wind up him. “Guys,” he told us on Saturday, “I’m going to propose to my fiancé on Sunday,” failing to realise how silly that sounded. He suggested we find a way to inveigle his girlfriend and her parents for the purpose. When I pointed out the anomaly of proposing to someone post the sending out of invitations, he claimed he was doing it to “make memories”.

I don’t know about him, but it turned out that some of us did make memories. On Sunday morning, he woke to his usual bike ride with a bunch of buddies while we panicked that he would botch things up. “Do you know what he’s up to?” I asked my wife. She shrugged in response, while our daughter crossed her fingers and we all hoped for the best. He had disappeared around dawn, and it was breakfast time when he returned, claiming to be exhausted, having stayed up late whispering sweet nothings into the phone. “I’m going for a snooze, wake me up in an hour,” said the boy who intended to propose in two hours, but had made no plans about how he hoped to accomplish it with any degree of savoir-faire.

He told his sister he’d arrange rose petals on the lawn in the shape of a heart, stand amidst this ode to his love, and offer his girlfriend a ring. For this momentous occasion, he proposed to wear a suit with a bow tie. “What a loser,” his sister told him flatly, “she’ll be right to turn you down. “She’d better not,” I said, “we’ve already paid an advance to the caterer.” “Do you even have a ring?” his mother, somewhat practically, wanted to know. She’d ordered his engagement ring, true, but what our son needed right now was a proposal ring. “You can’t give her an engagement ring and then take it back,” she pointed out to him.

While she searched her stash for a spare one she had never worn, my son went off for his nap. Our daughter, still in her night suit, headed to the market in a panic to look for ways to dress up the occasion. Clutching a bunch of balloons, she descended on a cakery to order a batch of cupcakes, addressing the attendant to take down the message she wanted him to write: “Will you marry me?” While the attendant gawped at her, other buyers giggled at what they assumed to be a very forward girl. At any rate, she continued to provide further amusement while haranguing the assistant for getting the spelling wrong. “Marry me,” she pointed out, “not merry me.” 

Meanwhile, I pulled out the champagne, my wife selected the glassware, we dressed up neat and clean and were mostly ready by the time our son woke to say he was on top of things and we were not to worry. “It has to look impulsive,” he said, while we fussed with flowers and glasses. Passing lightly over the tender moments that followed the arrival — and “surprise” — of his beloved, I can share that it feels like we’re all engaged to be married, whether my son knows it or not.