On a summer morning in 1981, I stumbled up the stairs and into my condo after a twelve-hour night shift, turned on the television, plopped on the floor, and watched the fairy-tale wedding of Diana and Charles.
Despite the cynicism of my 22 years, I guess I believed in the fairy-tale, and must have said an envious prayer as I watched, because just two months later I met my own prince.
My life turned out to be the happily-ever-after story, not Diana's. At least as much as anyone's can be these days. (Knock on wood, quick!)
We appeared to be nothing alike, but for some reason I identified with Diana – her relationship with Charles seemed similar to a long-term relationship I had at her age … I understood her struggle to please, to gain attention, the battles with bulimia and anorexia and self-esteem. (Thank the good Lord mine didn't result in marriage.)
I had two sons in a row, just as she did. And my oldest son even looked like William for many years (I'm not the only one who said so.)
Because of Diana, I became a Royal Watcher. Not in excess, but I watched the interviews, the news blurbs, read the books. When she died, I cried, glued to the television for days.
I know I'm not the only one.
I really don't understand it. It's against character for me, but there you have it. And for the same reasons I don't understand, I'll be up early – really early – this morning watching Diana's son tie the knot with that lovely young girl Kate, praying that after their fairy-tale wedding, they live happily-ever-after.
For Diana's sake.
The commemorative mug above was a birthday gift from my sweet friend Kim a few years ago. Thank you again, Kimmy!
And now, this goofy capture of Max is my Friday-ish Favorite Photo, because the look of delirious joy on his face as Daniel pets him is a mirror of the joy I felt having all three kids here.
I hope all of you have a joyous weekend!
Long Hollow 
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