I bawled my eyes out today. You would too.
Roughly fifty years ago, my grandpa gave my grandma a small, plain gold band; she was pregnant and her wedding ring didn't fit her swollen hands. Over the years, it became my mother's. Over more years, it became mine. I wore it to work at Pizza Factory so that I wouldn't get my diamond dirty once Adam and I got engaged.
Roughly five years ago, my sweet husband gave me a beautiful, emerald cut diamond set in a thin gold band and asked me to marry him. Before I got that ring, I cared nothing about "the ring." I just knew I wanted the man. But when he got down on one knee on the top of a cornice at the Park City ski resort and opened that little red box, my heart almost burst. I had no idea what that ring would mean to me in and of itself.
Roughly five weeks ago, my husband bestowed me with another ring-this time exhibiting the amazing side talent of working in a dental lab and learning how to cast gold crowns. For my 26th birthday/5th anniversary, Adam MADE a planished gold band. I was amazed at how beautiful and how NOT amateur a piece of jewelry it was. And it meant so much that he made it with his own two hands.
Last night I had all three of these important rings on. In one swift move, Tate peed and pooped all over me, him, the curtains and the rug while I was in the middle of changing him. In a panicked moment of trying to control the damage, I took off all three rings and put them in my left pocket. I cleaned Tate up and forgot all about them until I got out of the shower today and went to put my rings on. They were not in my jewelry box. My stomach dropped as I remembered what I did last night. I ran to the washer where the pants I had been wearing were spinning around. Not there. Adam spent the entire day taking apart our washer. I searched every piece of laundry, every square inch of our carpet, checked and rechecked each of our hampers and broke down in between each unsuccessful attempt to locate my wedding rings. I am devastated beyond belief.
I don't usually fall prey to the "why?" question or second guess the things I do. I know stuff happens. But hell. WHY couldn't I have just walked ten steps away and put them in my box where they belong? WHY couldn't I have just kept them ON and washed my hands after? And how the hell did they get out of my pants, up through the slit in the washer, and down through at least two separate drain traps? It's maddening and I know I need to stop that circular thought process and somehow make peace with it but I feel like a part of me has died. And all the while I am supposed to be just basking in this new little life I have created. That's what I want to be doing; he is such a sweetheart. But my heart is utterly and completely broken.