Little sisters run the world, and apparently my schedule as mine proved when she asked me to change my flight and come back home a day early to help her get ready for prom. Which, as we all remember, I happily did. Change fees be darned, she was WORTH IT. Thus, I exuberantly handed my hard-earned dollar bills to the good people at Southwest, and hopped a Raleigh-bound flight.
Imagine my surprise when I showed up in North Carolina on a muggy Friday night only to have Emily Scott Peterson sheepishly confess that she’d mis-remembered her prom date, and it was in fact on SATURDAY night instead.
I laughed a little too hysterically and briefly considered beating her senseless with a brownie pan, and other various violent displays of testosterone. Quite frankly, there are a startling number of things in life that I abstain from only because of my highly illogical but very real fear of ending up on the Jerry Springer show, and this has been Emily’s saving grace more than once.
While Emily is not much with dates, she can rock a red hand me down dress like it’s her job. In a sea of high school girls channeling their inner Michelle Kwan and applying their makeup with a trowel, my little sister looked like she’d walked straight off the set of the Great Gatsby. She was positively elegant—everything from her sassy, beaded headband down to her painted toes. I spent a startling amount of time that night researching ways to transplant her long, ballerina legs onto my body, a surgery apparently performed only in the dark recesses of North Korea.
My other sister [who, might I add, is MUCH better with dates] graduated from Duke, and I was so proud that it took every ounce of self-control in my body not to leap on top of my chair and holler like a deranged lunatic when she walked across the stage. This was something that my discerning husband wisely informed me minutes before the ceremony that Dickens do not do. Baffled and wide-eyed, I’d sputtered well, HOW will Keri know that I love her if I don’t YELL?!“to which he’d gently replied, she’ll know if you’re very, very quiet.
Stricken, I indignantly spat, FINE. BUT I’M HOLLERING AT OUR DAUGHTER’S BALLET RECITALS.
It’s truly astounding how often our hypothetical children become ammunition in our arguments.
Being home was a thousand different kinds of wonderful. Touching down in Raleigh, my heart raced like I was Mary Bailey being offered the moon by George, and I wanted to bottle up the feeling and store it forever. It felt like North Carolina was playing my song, and I savored every single note.