I carry the baby from the bathroom. She’s wrapped in a hooded towel like a plump, wet burrito.
Her brother, wrapped in his own towel combo, trails behind and makes the following announcement about his sister.
“Mom, tomorrow night, I’m going to marry Teyla.”
I pause. It’s true that my family tree can be traced back to Kentucky. (In which case the tree is a wreath, ha, ha.) But I still didn’t see this coming.
(Not to mention I haven’t sent invitations.)
“Well buddy,” I say as I dry off the squirming bride-to-be, “you don’t usually marry someone from your family.”
“In fact, in some states, it’s against the law to marry your brother or sister,” I add solemnly, the weight of the United States government on my side.
“Hmmm,” he says doubtfully.
I feel compelled to add evidence to my case.
“Dad’s not my brother, you know. He wasn’t in my family when I was a little girl.”
Connor chuckles, still unsure that I’m telling the truth. After all, from what he can tell, Corey and I have been related forever. Why shouldn’t we have grown up side by side, fighting and laughing and playing together since the beginning of time?
“Mo-om,” he says, and he rolls his eyes and shakes his head and walks away with all the dignity of a near naked five-year-old.
In lieu of gifts, please send money for counseling.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well -- which takes on a whole new meaning in light of this post.