Middle Child frequently offers the suggestion that a tattoo of a ring on the left hand would improve the odds of one staying in place. The first one placed on the extended finger of a trembling bride's hand had to be cut off in the E.R. during the pre-eclamptic stage of our first pregnancy. The resulting mangled metal was made into a wider band containing the stone from the original engagement solitaire. That one was lost, but later found in the tub where Baby had been bathed only after it was replaced with a simple band. The three-quarter carat marquis diamond that seemed so lovely until I discovered that it would forever snag every knit within ten feet eventually fell out as I followed The Boy's meandering progress while pushing Infant Middle Child in a cart through a large book store. There was a lengthy search upon the realization at the checkout that the setting on my finger was a gaping pit of prongs devoid of its sparkly inhabitant.
In the vain hope that three 's a charm, the mister and I treated one another to new gold bands for our anniversary in year five. He still has his a decade later, but mine disappeared somewhere in our old church. I took it off in a preschool classroom so it would not have to be cut off as I experienced more of the pregnancy swelling so detrimental to ring no. 1. It was probably swallowed by either a vacumn cleaner or a three-year-old. So ends the chapter on gold wedding rings.
It turns out that I am allergic to gold--- which probably explains much of my fidgeting with those 14K+ bands. (Who knew?!) In the bright, new millenium, we began to replace my wedding rings with silver bands that were a match to the mister's gold one since the jeweler in question creates almost all of his pieces in both gold and silver. The first one I lost somewhere. (It was not notable enough at this point for me to remember the circumstances.) The second one apparently fled my finger when I took out the trash, but the oopsie went unnoticed until the bin had been emptied and the truck was long gone. The third one attempted to follow in the grand tradition of its immediate predecessor. Over the course of a week, I repeatedly looked down to discover a ring finger naked except for tan lines indicating the regular wear of a 1/2" wide band. The locations where the ring relocated included the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, and the shower. Because it was simply too big after the weight loss of the past months to stay put when soap and water come together.
Rather than visit a tattoo parlor, the girls and I opted for a stop at the most recent James Avery location to open in our neck of the woods. Where I was rather pleased to discover that I have lost a full ring size in this year's weigh down, and to find that the jeweler allowed the return of my battered too-large ring for 25% credit toward its shiny replacement. And that the 88 year-old designer will be in the store to celebrate its grand opening next week with a drawing for a piece from his collection. I think the girls and I will drop by to enter the drawing and meet the man who has designed the bits of shiny metal that have marked many occasions in our lives.