Audio By Carbonatix
Two long-time friends recently decided to get married after seventeen years of dating. How this could happen in 1989 America is beyond me. But it did.
The wedding was to be a major northern California to-do, attended by some two hundred of the bride and groom’s most intimate intimates, many of whom would be flying in from all corners of the country. To the guests, this was The Event of the Century. I don’t think any of us believed the gala ceremony would actually take place, but it was worth showing up to watch one or the other of the marrieds-to-be cop an eleventh-hour plea (I predicted temporary insanity) that would keep all us intimate intimates laughing for another seventeen years.
So suspense was in the air. But nowhere, apart from the bride and groom’s respective digs, could it have been as thick as it was at my house, where my three-year-old son was being prepped to play the crucial role of ringbearer.
The ringbearer’s responsibilities are not overwhelming. He simply walks down the aisle, hands the ring to the best man, stands silently and mannequin-still for fifteen or twenty minutes, poses for a few group photos, and is then congratulated by one and all for the fine job he’s done.
That’s how the script reads, anyway. Unfortunately, my son has never been one to stick to a script. I could easily envision the lad flying down the aisle, screaming like a wounded pterodactyl (his favorite animal impression); losing the ring; upstaging the stars with a fifteen- or twenty-minute fit; making the photographer wish he were shooting a Libyan battle zone for Time magazine; driving the newlyweds to a speedy annulment; and effectively destroying The Event of the Century.
Were that to happen, I certainly couldn’t blame my son. After all, he’s only three. He’s supposed to have the attention span of a South American newt (which has been known to starve to death because it forgot it had food in its mouth).
It’s normal. Just like his usual response to the threat, “If you throw your tricycle at Bradley again, you’re going straight to bed”–which is to promptly throw his tricycle at Bradley. On the way to the bedroom, you ask, “Why did you do throw your bike at Bradley when I told you not to?”
“I forgot.”
“Well, the next time you forget, your bike is going in the garbage. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now tell me what I just said.”
“You said, um . . . you said no dessert if I’m bad.”
“That is not what I said. Tell me what I said.”
“You said . . . um . . . you said . . . ” Long pause. “Daddy?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
See? He’s an average kid. So I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t screw up The Event of the Century.
During the wedding rehearsal, the ringbearer made it all the way down the aisle without unbearing himself of the ring–but demonstrated he was not about to stand silently and mannequin-still for any period of time whatsoever. Thankfully, he was relieved of that duty. Upon delivery of the goods to the best man, he was to come sit next to Mommy and Daddy.
We rehearsed. All the way home and all the way back to the church the next day: “All right. Now what are you going to do?”
“I TOLD YOU ALREADY!”
“Tell me again.”
“I’m gonna carry the ring and give it to Jason.”
“No, not Jason. David.”
“Yeah. David.”
“And then what?”
“Sit with Mommy and Daddy.”
“Very good. Excellent. Once more. What are you going to do?”
“I TOLD YOU ALREADY . . . ”
To further ensure a flawless performance, we offered a bribe. It’s a sad truth and not one you like to think applies to your own flesh and blood. But a child’s love, obedience and attention can be bought. And the price you name is in direct proportion to the amount of love, obedience and attention he will dispense. A 99-cent Hot Wheels roadster, for example, will get you approximately three minutes of love, obedience and attention, while a $12 wind-up, walking dinosaur skeleton will buy you up to a half hour’s worth–if the child is well-napped, fully fed and not in prehistoric-monster mode.
Moments before The Event of the Century officially commenced, we showed him the $12 wind-up, walking dinosaur skeleton and promised it would be his, forever, if he came through for Mommy and Daddy. After one more quick rehearsal (“I TOLD YOU ALREADY!”), we abandoned him to take our seats. The bagpipes started playing (obviously, a mere organ would not have provided the proper musical accompaniment for The Event of the Century), and the wedding procession began. There came the groom, the best man, the flower girl . . . and my son, whose entrance elicited two hundred “Awwwwwws” that sounded like a thousand in the cavernous church. At that moment I realized why parents don’t hang up on friends in the market for three-year-old ringbearers. They don’t hang up because they know their child is adorable and that, given the chance, the world would agree with a sweet, gentle chorus of “Awwwwwws.” And even if the world didn’t agree, Mommy and Daddy would be too busy wiping sloppy tears of pride from their eyes to notice.
Although it suddenly seemed unimportant, my son handed the ring to David, not Jason, and scurried off to sit with his beaming parents, precisely as directed. Somehow sensing the formality of the occasion, he spoke to us in a whisper: “Okay. I did it. Now where’s my dinosaur skeleton?”
The crowd was so awestruck by the lad’s flawless performance that nobody seemed to mind that he refused to part with his hard-earned booty when it came time to pose for the wedding-party photos. In the future, when historians look closely at photographic records of The Event of the Century, they will see a small boy off to the side, disassembling a $12 wind-up, walking dinosaur skeleton.
That’s my son. Awwwwww.
A 99-cent Hot Wheels roadster will get you approximately three minutes of love, obedience and attention.
