White shirt pressed and buttoned up the curly haired boy beamed. Miniature dress slacks creased carefully hung down to the tennis shoe clad toes. A bright red tie as a final touch and he was ready.
“I’m a gentleman!” he exclaimed proudly examining himself in the bathroom mirror.
Admiring her brother’s dapper apparel the littlest smoothed down her ruffles and smiled. Her dark eyes and dimply mocha cheeks framed by a tiara of baby’s breath looked up to me. Bright red dancing shoes upon her tiny feet and we were ready to go.
“She’s a princess!” he said with a clasp of the hands and a spontaneous hug. What a good big brother!
We arrived at the wedding site and practiced the march. People gathered with oohs and ahs for the bride, her attendants, the decorations and my two precious babes. A minor mishap with the throwing of the ring pillow (with the real rings!) by my son as he walked to close for comfort to a pond in the yard where holy matrimony took place stopped my heart for just a beat. Our tidy two year old saw fit to throw the petals but then also pick them back up. They made it to the front; whew!
The ceremony was lovely. The bride gorgeous. My eyes, though, were glued to my ring-bearer and flower girl. A marriage of nations, the wife from the States, the man from Bolivia, was duly represented in the brother and sister pair of different skin tones. It was a happy day.