an arranged marriage

This afternoon my son told me, after much giggling with his friend who is over to play, that he had news. I was a mother-in-law.

SEAMUS: Mommy, I am married to Elizabeth!

He and his friend fell into a pit of giggles.

Seamus is five. Elizabeth is in his class. Some of the faster girls in pre-K talk about boyfriends and stuff, but from Seamus, a boy, this announcement was a little unexpected.

MOMMY: How did you get married to Elizabeth, Shea?

SEAMUS: At school.

MOMMY: Does Elizabeth know that you’re married?

SEAMUS: Um. I don’t know. Want to see my married arm band?

He pushed up his sleeve to show me one of my black hair elastics, which my kids all call “Mommy’s bracelets” because I am rarely without one around my wrist. It was around his bicep, and come to think of it, had been there since last night.

I have been pushing for a few more details, but am not having success. In typical Seamus fashion, my son has dropped a total bomb on me and refuses to discuss it further. Long time readers will recall that this has been going on ever since he told me that he touched a poop at camp two summers ago, and then blew a gasket whenever I tried a follow-up question. I’m still up at night sometimes thinking about that one.

Seamus’ bombshells without details will be a real problem for me down the road. I can just picture him as a sullen teenager, walking in from school and saying something, oh, like

SEAMUS: Mom. I’m married to Elizabeth.

or even

SEAMUS: Mom. I touched a poop at school.

and then walking away, leaving me to piece the story together. It will be even more unsettling coming from a 17-year-old, I imagine.

Elizabeth’s mother was Seamus’ nursery school teacher, so I can say my son has chosen well. Maybe Elizabeth is less stingy with the color commentary. I’ll let you know what her mom says.