So if you hadn’t guessed, this is the fateful day that the Interrupted Family was, if not born, at least legalized.

The ‘born’ part had happened earlier, at least by about eight weeks earlier when the oldest Son, Interrupted was born. If you could zoom in a little past my right shoulder (if you hadn’t guessed, that’s me in the white coat dress, with the artfully placed bouquet sort of camouflaging my gigantic derriere, which I would label as ‘post partum,’ but if we’re going to be honest, then we’d have to fully disclose that my derriere always looks like I just gave birth to a ten pound baby), then you’d see my sister holding the little red-headed angel.

The little girl in the green dress is the oldest Daughter, Interrupted. Somewhere running around that picture is the younger Daughter, Interrupted, who may have gotten cold feet at the last minute about standing in front of all those people in that little church in the Sedona red rocks.

That’s Dad, Interrupted in the camel blazer, listening to me tell him that I hoped we always remembered how we felt right that minute.

In all honesty, that’s a room full of people who are wondering how long to give this marriage when they picked their square in the pool. And I don’t blame them one bit, because if we’re going to keep being honest, I think there’s a little bit of that going on at every wedding and when the couple’s eight-week old baby is attending the odds making really takes off.

I guarantee you that no one in that room picked twenty-two years. Not even me.

What the heck is she doing now?

© E. Stocking Evans 2016