In our house, the official gift for the eighth wedding anniversary is a string of purple plastic beads. My husband and I have been married for eight delightful years, and at some point, to remind us of our adventures on our eighth anniversary, one of us will give the other purple beads, somehow, as a gift.
When we started our day by exchanging gifts at the breakfast table, we explained to our daughter that on this day, eight years ago, we got married.
“Why?” she asked incredulously.
We just smiled.
The day was unremarkable, except that it fell on a Saturday, which meant that we could celebrate on the actual day. Even so, the Saturday began like most typical Saturdays around our house: chores. I hauled a remarkable amount of laundry out of the various baskets and sorted them into three amazing mountains. My husband ran errands.
My daughter helped me “scrub” the kitchen floor and the dining room table, joyfully singing, “Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share” as she swept the pile of dust on the floor in all directions except the direction of the waiting dust pan.
“See Momma, I help you sweep.”
“Yes, you’re a big help.”
I started a load of dishes, talked my daughter into getting dressed and brushing her hair, and ironed my husbands “wrinkle-free” shirts as they emerged from the dryer as wrinkled as ever.
When my husband returned from his Saturday morning errand-running, sporting a new hair cut, he played the movie Santa Buddies for our daughter. I swept the floors again, this time without help.
All in all it was an incredibly productive day, and by the time lunch wrapped up and nap time arrived, I was far enough ahead on chores that I had time to work on Christmas knitting. I finished one project and started a second.
I knitted, cup of hot cinnamon spice tea in hand, dreary wet clouds outside. A perfect day. Soon my husband and I would be off on our anniversary date, dinner and a show at The Amory, and our daughter would be getting undivided attention from one of her favorite baby sitters. A winning and wonderful anniversary day all the way around.
After I was dressed and we awaited the sitter’s arrival, I sat down to spend time with my daughter.
“Would you like to color or read?” I asked.
“Okay, but first could you please help me get the bead out of my nose?”
“There’s a bead in your nose? How did it get there?”
“I put it there.”
I looked at my husband, who returned my wide-eyed, almost panicked stare.
“Let’s go take a look and see what we can see.”
So we lay our daughter on our bed, grabbed a flash light, and sure enough, we could see a purple plastic bead in her right nostril.
“That’s too far up for us.” I said.
“Yep. I’ll see if I can get our tickets changed to next week. You call the baby sitter.”
And so we rearranged our plans and headed out to see the good folks at Fort Atkinson Urgent Care, where we spent the better part of two hours trying to get the bead out of the nostril.
Turns out that a phone call to the ENT on call (who probably didn’t miss any of his dinner as a result of this mishap) garnered a suggestion of Afrin nasal spray and a good blow, which worked (much to my surprise, after all of the things that hadn’t worked up to this point). I caught the offending bead in a tissue and promptly tossed it in the trash.
My husband and I had our anniversary dinner at Culvers in Fort Atkinson, while our daughter enjoyed some frozen custard as a reward for her excellent behavior at urgent care.
“You put a purple bead up your nose?”
“Why?” I asked incredulously.
My daughter just smiled a big toothy grin through her chocolate-ice-cream-covered face.
I’m thinking a string of amethyst beads would be nice.
© 2010 Michele Arduengo. All rights reserved.