How I met your mother

I realized this past weekend (and where did that go, btw?) that I've known three out of the four daughters-in-law since they were teenagers.  I think I met Erica when she was fourteen; the same with Sarah.  But I think Dede was sixteen when Ed brought her around to the house.  We lived in Provo then.

Janie was with me.  We stood in the kitchen.  Ed introduced her:  "This is Dede," pronounced Deedee.

"Dede," I said.  "How do you spell that?"  I was always interested in name spellings.  Jonathan dated a Mashell once.  The best.

"D-E-D-E."  Wrong spelling.

"That's not Deedee.  That's Duhduh."

Janie cackled.  "Yeah, that IS Duhduh."

"So where are you from, Duhduh?"  Janie and I cackled together.  We are each six inches taller than Dede and thirty years older, so this was a really a FAIR and EQUAL conversation.  There was absolutely no misuse of power here.

I don't think I saw Dede again until Ed brought her around at age 22.  I hope I didn't bring up the Duhduh then, but knowing how I break out into inappropriate behavior occasionally, I can't be sure.

Anyway, Dede had a birthday last weekend.  She is fortyish.  "Ish" covers five years.  I am seventyish and will be for another four years and then I will be seventy-fivish" until I'm eighty.  Get it?

For her birthday, she gets to have surgery on her back.  See how life starts stinking at certain ages?  This, I doubt, will slow down the energetic Dede.  Still, back surgery is not a massage with lavender-smelling oils, is it?

It makes me sorry about the Duhduh thing.  Almost.

Happy Birthday, dear Dede.