We had a plan.
It was 2006 and I bought your father a bottle of 2002 Opus One for his 30th birthday.
We were going to drink it in three years, for my 30th birthday…
But I was on a synthetic hormone called clomid for my 30th birthday. It was 2009 and, hopped up on fertility medication, I was spending alternating periods staring at a blank wall and crying like the first time seeing “Beaches.” It’s not the best time to enjoy a fine wine, we said, as sometimes reasoning kicks in.
Holidays went by.
And there sat the bottle tucked away in the wine fridge wrapped in a velvet cloth.
We’ll drink it after the babies are born…
For our first Christmas in the house!
2011 came and went.
2012 is waning…
Bye bye, Thanksgiving…
…Saturday night was an ordinary night. The type of sweatpants and slippers. Your dad made a fire. Outside it was cold.
We skipped a bath and put you straight in your pajamas, orange spaghetti-sauce-covered faces and all.
You were wild after a long fun day of Christmas stuff and seeing family.
You were so excited about our tree.
We decorated it, holding up various non-breakable ornaments and asking, “where should we put it?!” And you guys would run over to the same low branch on the tree and point and say “here! here!”
“Should we…?” your dad asked bringing it out the bottle from it’s stash in a cardboard box in the bottom of the pantry, next to giant jugs of canola oil and seltzer bottles and whatever can be crammed in. (The wine fridge has since broke.)
We drank our bottle of Opus One Saturday night.
We toasted our glasses, petting your heads as you buzzed about our knees, “cheers…”
It wasn’t how we pictured drinking it all those years ago, in sweatpants in a house in the suburbs with two kids–twins–running about (and, after my visit to the hair salon on Friday, with dark hair like Darlene’s from “Roseanne,” again you really must be specific when it comes to what you want in life, more than “dark, yeah whatever”)
We could never have planned such a perfect night.