Saratoga News

Tripped up by a slip of the tongue

By Mary Ann Cook

When my sister asked my children to be official members of her wedding party, she had one caveat about the 3-year-old. "Does he still drool? If he still drools, I don't want him." I had to check him out carefully the next few days before I was assured I had told the truth--that he had outgrown that habit so unbefitting a ceremonial occasion.

As for my daughter, weddings were not an unknown rite of passage. Five-year-old femmes plot their weddings daily, since it's certain they'll star. I started to explain about the coming festivity. She shushed me. The entire folderol was already embedded in her heart and her plot. As a result, she harbored an inflated view of her role, seeing herself as a major player and not, as is so often the case with flower girls, a walk-on. At showtime she balked, loud and long, at wearing something as mundane as white anklets when her own penchant was for silk hosiery. She insisted on dressing like the others, than whom she was no less, except in years.

An infinitely patient bridesmaid finally talked her down to cotton and lace. Her last stab at assuming her rightful role came when she plunged into the getaway car with the groom. After considerable cajolery, she was disabused of the notion of displacing the bride and duly ejected.

In stark contrast to the flower girl's perception was the ring bearer's. Over the months, he had said he would be proud to bear the ring down the aisle. Well, he didn't phrase it like that exactly. Like his saliva control, his language skills were not that advanced.

What he actually said was "I carry the cush." But it was said with both pride and enthusiasm. He knew the ring would be sewn on, that he would be in no danger of losing it. And after his lifetime solo successes with "I'm a Little Teapot," he had no qualms about assuming center stage.

However, after taking in the impressive church--the high-domed ceiling, the resplendent altar, the flickering candles--he announced, quietly but firmly, that he would not bear the cush. So thoroughly did he disengage himself from the action that the two of us were seated, at his behest, in the very last row. From that vantage he could look over the back of the pew, wide-eyed with trepidation. This was a child who liked to perform, so if not stage fright, what could the matter be?

At the reception, I found out. I leaned down to catch his words.

"Where's the water?" he asked, looking around apprehensively.

"You want a drink?"

"No, the water," he insisted. "When's the water?

What water?

"You said it was a wetting."

Oh. A wetting.

He must have been expecting an avalanche, something on the order of Bridal Veil Falls. Careful enunciation could have staunched his anguish; he coulda been a participant.

After chiding myself all these years, I've finally let it go. Sometimes your listener simply can't take in all the machinations of an unknown. And if words fall trippingly from your tongue, there's danger they will trip you up.

Mary Ann Cook is a Saratoga News columnist.

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