So my daughter-in-law threw a party to celebrate two family graduations — one by her daughter, my oldest granddaughter, from high school, and one by her husband, my son, from law school.
So of course there was a mechanical bull. And of course Carmen, my daughter-in-law’s mother, my son’s mother-in-law, and I climbed up to take a turn.
Reader, we were not skilled, though this was emphatically not my first bull, mechanical or real. Carmen insisted on getting a little liquored up before trying the thing out. I was stone-cold sober, though this picture would make you think otherwise.
There were kids, and games, and giggles and belly laughs. There was a fancy cake from the best bakery in Connecticut, and much mingling. There is a video of this ride which I won’t post here, because it shows me landing pretty hard on Carmen, who is soft and squishy and was very kind to break my fall. I’d call to see if she is OK, but honestly, I’d hate to hear she isn’t.
I’m posting this because my own family of origin is separated by religion, by politics, by distance, by (in some cases) a deep and abiding dislike for one another. I always felt guilty that I could not deliver to my son a big, loud hillbilly family, the kind whose elders would cheerfully perch atop a mechanical bull and look like idiots, the kind with whom you could bicker and argue yet still share a deck and a drink with.
Fortunately, my son had the good sense to marry into such a family which, by extension, means I (finally) have a big loud family, too. And Carmen? Sorry about the elbow to your gut. I love you, girl.