Dear Future Husband,
I think it’s time you met my folks. I mean, you are going to have YEARS to really get to know them, but why not start now? It seems as though we have some time to kill.
We’ll start with my mother. And yes, I call her “mother.” She is in my phone as “mother.” I refer to her as “mother.” Go ahead and get used to it.
Anyhow, my mother LOVES to scrapbook. Like legit LOVES it. Loves it to a level that I cannot comprehend. When I joined my college sorority, I let her know (during my freshman year) that it was tradition for the mothers of the seniors to create a special memory book or video for their daughters that would then be shared with everyone during a chapter meeting before graduation.
My mother’s response:
“Why are you telling me this NOW?!”
Oh, but the response does not mean what you would think it means. She really meant, “Why are you telling me this NOW instead of on the very first day you even CONSIDERED joining a sorority…three full years to create a comprehensive commemorative scrapbook of your amazing life is NOT enough time!”
And then she went straight to work. Three years later, I was presented with the largest, most elaborate and, yes, interactive scrapbook I – or anyone for that matter – have ever seen. The thing literally MOVED. It flipped. It flopped. There were wheels that turned. There were hidden photos and secret compartments. You name it – it was there, and I love it. (I’ll show it to you on a future date.)
Fast forward a few years. I was on a cruise with my parents, and on the last night, the cruise staff put on a special show that ended with a confetti blast. My mother IMMEDIATELY dropped to her knees and began gathering the themed confetti. She looked up at me and implored, “IMA! Help me! I need it for the scrapbook!”
As the crowds dispersed, I quickly realized that my mother and I were joined on our quest to collect the discarded confetti by every child on the ship under the age of five…mother had no shame…I had a little.
PS. If you see me saving used napkins from our first dinner date, I promise I’m not weird…it’s for the scrapbook.