As I’ve mentioned before, I was somewhat of a child bride.
Except, not really.
I got married in my early-ish twenties, so, I guess by today’s standards I was somewhat of an infant,
but hey, at least I was legal, right?
The same cannot, in fact, be said for my mother, who got married at the ripe old age of 20.
20 and one month, to be exact.
You see, in our family, young love and younger marriage has become somewhat of a tradition.
My parents first got together in high school,
(sound familiar?)
but were actually brought together by many fateful moments and incredible coincidences even before they officially met
(sound even more familiar?).
Oh, and did I mention that my parents met at the same high school that both my husband and I also attended?
I know, we’re not normal.
So, the tradition of getting married when barely out of training-wheels was not something that I started.
Not even close.
My mom and dad started to date when they were just 15 and 17, respectively.
They met in gym class.
They went to the prom together.
My dad showed up with a bouquet of flowers to my mom’s Sweet 16.
They were first loves.
One and only loves.
Just last week, my dad quoted Van Morrison’s “Crazy Love” to describe their relationship.
I know.
One of a kind.
They got married and moved from our hometown of Philadelphia to Boston for my dad to attend Law School.
Amongst their law school friends, they were the exception, as the lone married couple. I like to picture the “St. Elmo’s Fire” gang when thinking of their Boston days.
When my mom became pregnant in the summer before my dad’s 3L year, their friends could not have been more shocked. Or ill prepared.
My mom tells me that she went to a bar when she was 8 months pregnant with me.
And she still got carded.
No one in this group of young 20-somethings had any idea what to do with a baby.
And so, when I was born the following April, my dad’s buddies were collectively filled with a mixture of excitement, incredulousness and inexperience.
Forgoing the standard baby gift of a receiving blanket or onesie, my dad’s closest friends came to visit me in the hospital, toting an enormous,
four-foot-tall, flamingo pink teddy bear.

Practicality be damned, these boys knew how to get a girl a present.
When my dad graduated, just two months later, he carried me up to the podium with him as he accepted his diploma. He had written “New Dad” in masking tape on the top of his cap, as his smile was radiant, his face beaming with indescribable pride.

Amazingly, my parents have still stayed close friends with their law school gang. And, as always happens, those guys grew up. And, by the time they had babies of their own, they’d had ample practice.

When my daughter was born, we got the most wonderful gifts from these law school friends.
A beautiful painted rocking chair.
A personalized toy holder with dolls that had my daughter’s name embroidered on their clothes.
But, nothing compared to a certain gift we found waiting on our front porch a few weeks after we came home from the hospital.
As I pulled into our driveway, I caught a glimpse of a giant cardboard box that was blocking our front door. When I say giant, I mean it. This box was over 7 feet tall.

There was a beautiful card attached to the outside,
And the note read, “I got your mommy her first way-too-big stuffed animal, too. It’s kind of a tradition for us.”
Inside the box stood a 6 foot tall giraffe.
Six. Feet. Tall.
Standing, in all of it’s spotted, yellow giraffe-goodness.

And let me tell you,
It is the coolest stuffed animal ever.

But, even cooler than the gift itself,
Which, again, is pretty freakin’ cool,
Is the sentiment behind it.
The tradition.
The family that my parents made when they were far from home, in Boston,
And the extended family that has grown from that–
Uncles my daughter now gets to love and enjoy.

Families have all kinds of traditions.
For some, it’s a special birthday cake from a certain bakery.
Or a holiday feast.
A first-day-of-school ritual,
Or a way they say goodnight.
For us, it’s meeting your soul-mate in high school,
And marrying young.
Having a first child, a girl, in April.
And, getting that little girl giant stuffed animal, one that is almost too big to fit through the door, before the baby can even hold up her own head.
As far as family traditions go,
ours is definitely untraditional.
A little crazy love,
and even, maybe a little crazy,
But I’ll take it any day.