On Love And Snails

‘If you need me, I’ll be in the bath with my goggles on,’ said my newly minted six-year-old, over the weekend.

June is a pretty big month for us around here, but I think life lately can be summed up in that sentence.

We celebrate how and where we can.

And even though it’s June, the weather has turned October-ish, so socially-distanced cupcakes outside get rained out, or cut short.

More on that later.

Before Isla’s birthday there was our anniversary.

Right around that time, I added our first date story to the many on the twitter hashtag #DisabledLoveIsBeautiful. This was started, not by me, in answer to a letter to the New York Times about whether it was OK to stop dating someone with a chronic condition.

The reply to the letter suggested it was OK, but there’s been a correction. Sort of.

The love stories shared in answer cover romantic love, married love, friendship, family, and self-love.

And it got me thinking. As these things do.

Neil’s train was delayed on our first date. He called me up and told me so. This was back when we did call each other on the phone.

‘My train’s late,’ he says.

‘Are you crapping out on me? Because I’ve already decided that you’re not a jerk.’

‘No, I’m sitting here filling out a passport renewal. I’ll even show you the photo if you promise not to leave.’

So, I sat there with two drinks and a Murakami novel.

Because our last emails went like this:

‘How will I know it’s you?’

‘Hair. Wheels.’

‘Yes, but we should decide what books we’re going in with.’

Half an hour later he walked in wearing an obscure band t-shirt, using his passport photo as a bookmark in his obscure band book.

‘You’re leaving now, right?’

‘No, you look like you. I look like Marlon Brando in my passport photos. You’ll see.’

And so began our seven and a half hour last first date.

I’m glad he doesn’t read ableist advice columns.

Because then we wouldn’t have found each other among books in translation, indie movies, 6,042 text messages, and hundreds more train trips.

Because then I wouldn’t have proposed on Leap Year four years later, and then discovered he’d been carrying ring box around for a year and a half. Just the box, though. Not the ring. It’s the thought that counts.

Because then there’d be no wedding, seven years ago this month, still.

Because then there’d be no Isla, who is everything. My sarcasm, his feet. Her own self.

Isla, who turned SIX, made us wear matching butterfly tattoos. Who likes cute bunnies and kittens and gross snails, and most of the time, her parents.

We all spent the weekend with sprinkles and Lego. I really wanted to see my Dad. Outside and at a distance. But some rain and six-year-old Lego thunder postponed those plans.

‘Isla, the fake cat poop is in the table,’ is a sentence I never thought I’d say, but there it is.

We asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she said, ‘a robot cat that poops. It’s a thing.’

Snails are also a thing. Or something.

Neil’s out with Isla on a walk recently, and the phone rings.

It’s Isla.

‘Hi, Mummy. How are you?’

‘You never call me. What do you want?’

‘I found snails. Can I bring them home? It’s OK, they’re not ferrets.’

She already knows she can pretty much bring anything home, as long as it’s not a ferret.

So we now have two snails and a robot cat.

And a six year-old who swims in the bath. I’ll take it.

*

If you enjoyed this post, please consider buying me a coffee, or if you’d like more at home shenanigans, sign up for my weekly newsletter through the form at the end of any post.