It's my one flaw. I'm never on time. I think it's psychological, and I inherited it from my late dad. One of my very best friends is always late, too, so we are just a train wreck when it comes to getting together. It's like we subconsciously try to out-late each other. But we are very gracious about it and continually let one another off the hook for our tardiness.
What does this have to do with romance? Just a minute, I'll think of something. Oh, yeah. Now I remember. About being "late."
I was 41 years old, so being "late" didn't impress me much, if you know what I mean. But it should have, because I was pregnant with my 3rd child after a ten year gap. I was stunned. My husband fell back on the bed and cried. We had plans, you see. A baby was not in them.
Of course we recovered within, say, an hour or two. Rejoiced. Celebrated. And it was then that I began to wonder how it all happened. People teased us about being older, about being careless. Well, yes, and yes. We were. Careless. In fact, we knew exactly when our delightful little daughter was created.
It was Mother's Day, 1995. My husband likes to tell his friends about the day, the one and only day, he went river rafting on a river he had no business being on. Wild and raging. He, inexperienced in a canoe. He survived. Made him a man. Proud. Strong. **Virile!**
I roll my eyes at the story, but I have to smile to myself. My honey is anything but macho, yet he perceived this life-threatening river trip as something romantic in his life. Something daring and intoxicating-- dangerous, I guess-- is romantic.
So when we talk about our surprise daughter, he tells the river story and I always say, "Happy Mother's Day to you, too!"