We may not remember dentist appointments or even the first names of our children, but every woman remembers every detail of the way her husband proposed.

What made Doug’s proposal so magically unexpected was that is was supposed to be his night.  I’d rented a limo for his thirtieth birthday and invited two of our couples friends to a night out in Hartford.  (Today, this could never happen.  First, because we are no longer fun enough to go out with other couples.  And second, a limo ride through Hartford would result in every window shot out and a shattered bottle of champagne.)  At some point during that limo ride, moonlight wisping against our skin and “Unchained Melody” (alright so I don’t remember what song was playing, but the Righteous Brothers seems most fitting) dripping through the speakers, he actually got on one knee, shyly pulled a sparkling diamond ring out of his pocket, and popped the question.  He swore that if I’d be his wife, it would be the best birthday present he could ever wish for.  I exhaled and said yes—and he slipped the ring on my finger.

Much has happened since that night.  Kids, bills, job injuries, never-ending home improvement projects.  Not to mention the diamond falling out of my ring, prongs now ugly and bare, lost without a trace.

Now that the kids are out of diapers and Doug and I are actually starting to like each other again, he made the beautiful gesture of taking my ring to the jeweler’s to replace that missing stone.

He plunked it into my hand last week with a grin.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“What, it doesn’t look familiar?” was his wry response.

And then it hit me.  “You got my ring fixed!  That was so…WAIT.  This isn’t a real diamond, is it?”

“Maybe.”

“YOU SPENT ANNA’S PRESCHOOL TUITION ON A PIECE OF ROCK?” I demanded.  What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Calm down.  It’s not real.  But it looks that way, doesn’t it?”

And then I pictured him there at the jeweler’s, ring in his pocket, anticipating the joyous surprise on my face, and the soft spot in my heart took over.  Yet, something wasn’t quite right.

“It’s even prettier than the diamond itself,” I gushed.  “…But aren’t you forgetting something?”

“The partridge in the pear tree wasn’t practical.  But the twelve ladies dancing are out in the car.”

“You practically threw it at me,” I continued.  “Why aren’t you down on one knee?”

“Why aren’t you down on both knees?”

“Stop being a jerk.  Why do you have to wreck a perfectly sweet moment?  At the very least, you can put it on my finger.”

He shrugged.  I held out my hand.  And he slid the ring onto my finger—until it collided with my knuckle.

“Maybe you should put it on yourself,” he suggested.

I grabbed my hand away from him.  “That’s ridiculous…(twist)…all you have to do it twist it…(twist)…like this…(twist, twist, twist)…”

And just like that, I was one of Cinderella’s ugly step-sisters, pushing my fat foot in that dainty slipper as if my life depended on it.

“Can’t you just push it on?” Doug pitched.

“Are you kidding me?!  The last time I pushed this hard, a baby fell out.  And by the way, everyone knows it’s nine!”

“Your ring size?”

“What do I have, manhands?  Not size nine!  Nine ladies dancing!  Forget it.  It’s not budging.”

“Why don’t I just take it back and have it resized?”

And that’s what he did.  Just like a doting husband (or at least, one who’s tired of his wife’s whining) should.

The ring now rests in its rightful spot, below the knuckle, in all of its cubic zirconian glory.

When Eva saw it, grabbed my hand and squealed.  “Ooooh!  It’s almost as shiny as my Cinderella sparkly shoes!”  (Which, by the way, are a perfect fit.)

“No, Eva,” Tyler intercepted.  “They’re Anna’s shoes.  Santa wrote her name on it.”

“No, they’re MY shoes,” Eva insisted.  “Mama, Tyler said my Cinderella sparkly shoes are Anna’s Cinderella sparkly shoes!”

“MY ELLA SPARKLY SHOES!” countered Anna.

“If it’s the same shoe I tripped on down the stairs this morning, it’s no one’s shoe anymore!” Doug bellowed.

Over the clatter of girls warring, a boy laughing, and an angry father stomping downstairs to the workshop in his mancave with a broken shoe and a bottle of glue, I studied the ring on my finger for the first time in nearly a year.

Funny thing is, after a decade of for better or worse, it’s more real to me now than it ever was before.