February 8, 2013
By Ekta R. Garg
Enjoy these special Spurts from the last couple of weeks about celebrations, readers!
Last month my husband and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. A whole decade. My husband decided to surprise me with a trip to Las Vegas, and he really meant “surprise” when he loaded the kids and me in the car and didn’t give us our final destination. He just got on the highway and started driving south.
About an hour away from Vegas, he finally told me that we would stay at the Venetian. He kept a few other surprises and revealed them after we got in our beautiful room. The first came in the form of a brand new diamond wedding band and engagement ring set, and after we danced to a new “our song” and the kids danced with us Six admired my new gems with the appropriate amount of wonder.
Four, however, had to protest. In her signature style of crossing both arms in a tight hug, she furrowed her eyebrows and frowned.
“I don’t get a ring,” she stated angrily.
I still felt a buzz from the shiny rocks on my left hand, so I just laughed, cuffed her under the chin, and told her that someday when she got married a nice boy would give her a ring.
“No, he won’t,” she said with confidence.
Six distracted both of us with something else, and we turned the conversation to other topics. But in the back of my mind that little parent ticker wondered idly if this meant that she actually expected diamonds from us at some point. I guess we’ve got to be prepared for her to ask for them at least.
As long as we don’t have to go all the way to Vegas to give them to her.
We didn’t stay in Vegas too long—we drove down there on the Saturday of the recent MLK long weekend, spent Sunday walking around the hotels and admiring their décor, and then drove back on Monday. We stopped for brunch at IHOP and then pulled into a gas station to fill the tank before heading north.
As the girls and I waited for their daddy to finish pumping the gas, Six glanced out the window and saw a sign outside of a slightly shabby building that boasted itself as the largest Vegas souvenir shop in the world.
The girls immediately latched onto that age-old combination: whining and guilt.
“Can we get some souvenirs?” Six asked.
“Because we don’t need any souvenirs.”
By that time my husband had finished paying for the gas, got back into the car, and we headed on our way. He got up to speed right away when the girls declared, “It’s a rule that when we go on vacation, we have to buy a souvenir.”
When neither of us budged they realized they wouldn’t get any traction on the souvenir issue, so they tried complaining about the length of our stay. That, in other words, we should have stayed longer.
“Why do we have to go back to Salt Lake?” Four asked, pouting. “I don’t want to go back.”
“You have school tomorrow,” I reminded her and her sister. “Don’t you want to go back to school and see all your friends?”
“No, I want to stay in Las Vegas.”
Whatever happened to the easy things, like just wanting to watch another TV show?
Earlier this week as I drove the girls to Six’s dance class, we listened to the radio and heard the song “Marry Me” by Train. Although we’ve heard the song dozens of times before, something about hearing it this time made them giggle.
“What? They’re getting married,” Six said.
“Ew, then they’ll kiss,” Four said and giggled even harder.
“That’s because boys are gross,” Six replied sagely. A minute later, though, she started laughing again.
I knew it would make them laugh harder, so I nodded. “Yes, boys are gross.”
The girls obliged me and laughed, and I couldn’t help chuckling with them. I love my husband, and he loves the kids and me but occasionally he does something to affirm our conclusion. Sometimes boys are just gross.