The age of the ring bearer

It seems we’ve entered the age of the ring bearer: the time in a young boy’s life when he first becomes uniquely qualified to hold an important and public position. You know, a little person, able to walk, and with a strong inclination toward causing a scene. That’s us in a nutshell.

Our first official hire was last September, when Randy’s cousin got married in Ft. Worth. Cooper’s services had been requested.

We agreed we’d try, without making any promises, and in the weeks prior to the wedding, we talked about his responsibilities as much as possible. After all, there’s only so much preparation a (then) two year old can do for an occasion that he really has no chance of comprehending. But we did our best, told him that good behavior would probably get him a fast race car or a big truck, and hoped and prayed that was all the boy needed to be on his best behavior.

We decided to make the experience an adventure just for mother and son, so we packed our suitcases, stocked the car with goodies for the drive, and headed south to see what kind of damage we might do at this formal, country-club affair.

We left Friday morning plenty early to make it to our destination on time. I allowed for all the necessary stretch breaks and diaper breaks, and packed dozens of DVD’s for the drive. I figured we would make the most of the 5 hour expedition, enjoy our one-on-one time together, and report for duty with time to spare. But of course I’d never been on a long road trip alone with a kid before.

We cruised for an hour or so, taking full advantage of the ranch style Chex Mix and peanut butter crackers. Little Einstein was flying along beside us on the DVD, and I thought to myself, “Wow, this is going to be easy.” But it seems I broke Cardinal Rule Number One in the karmic book of Mommy Kismet because just as I was settling in and thinking about the possibility of a quick shopping spree at the outlet mall, Cooper started crying for no apparent reason. This is pretty atypical behavior for him, especially in the car, but it only took a few seconds for me to discover what it was that had him so upset. Just as we were cruising past the town of Moore, he “coughed” all over the back seat.

As luck would have it, bad luck I mean, we were driving through one of those black holes on the interstate where there is absolutely no place to exit. I couldn’t safely slow down to the shoulder, so we had no other option but to keep on driving. After four or five heaves, about a thousand, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry’s”, and a backseat full of undigested, fully fragrant travel snacks, we finally made it to a pungent little taco shack where we changed clothes, cleaned up, and tried to figure out what to do next.

Fortunately, his stomach settled, we eliminated some of our more tangy treats, and the rest of our trip was painless. At that point, I figured performing in a wedding would be a breeze. And for the most part, it was.

The moment arrived for the kids to do their thing. Cooper was a little unsure about walking down the aisle with all those eyes upon him. After all, he is his father’s son. But he’d been promised that at the end of that “hall” was a very fast race car waiting in his cousin Brant’s suit pocket. All he had to do was get there.

And get there he did. Chin ducked, eyes peering out the top of his forehead, carrying his pillow and looking handsome all the way. And when he made it to the front, he sunk his hand into Brant’s pocket, laid down on the floor in front of the groomsmen, and drove the wheels off of that speedster.

Since then, we’ve been asked for an encore appearance and a third performance after that, each with their own unique, Cooper-style and Brisco-flavor. Of course I’m a nervous wreck every time. “Wedding crasher” is certainly not a reputation I wish for either of my sons to acquire.

But I guess these brides and grooms know what they are getting into. Or maybe they don’t-the most recent wedding we attended this summer had Cooper and Brisco standing at the front of a church full of lit candles wrapped in tulle.

Of course they kept things interesting, and entertain the crowd, and years from now, they can look back at the pictures and wonder what in the world they were doing in a tie. But that’s the age of the ring bearer: a moment in time when cuteness counts, being a cut-up is ok, and as long as they don’t burn the church down or tear the wedding dress off the bride, the whole thing is considered a success. Well, pretty much.

And that’s All in a day’s work!