My Darling Love

Chapter 60 – The Lessons Learned

"The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of."

-Blaise Pascal

Wendy Darling was now an unmarried woman of thirty-seven, her mother was only three years from sixty and her father was seven years ahead of that. Five years had come and gone, and they still lived the in the Darling home, Mary and George keeping the bedroom they shared all their years together. The years now gone had been good ones, but still unforgiving in the natural deterioration of youth that came with time. Wendy's father found it more and more difficult to see, and grew increasingly hard of hearing, but still was not bald. Mary only aged slightly; her timeless beauty maturing, leaving her with a head full salt and pepper hair, still held up in a bun. They were a "feisty pair of old fogies," as Wendy called them, entertaining their friends as always, until late in the evening, with card games, food and good fun. George hired two maids, a cook and a housekeeper to manage them all, finally making Mary a proper lady in polite society who had no domestic responsibilities, except to her husband, as she was now his eyes and ears.

"You still love me, Mary, even though I'm older than dirt?" George would ask loudly as they climbed into bed.

"Yes, George, I love you more and more each day," Mary would respond, helping him ease back into the pillow. It seems God still kept them in the corner of his eye, and answered Mary's prayers, George developed a charming sense of humor that got more refined as the years went by, letting go of his rigid and -- at times -- fearful disposition. "Sure you are not going to run off with a young gent with a fancy new car, Mary?" He would make her giggle and that giggle would end in a kiss and that kiss would end in them embracing well into the night and thru their sleep.

"I've still got a few good ones left in me, Mary, just let me know when you want one," George would tell her, patting her bum in the morning as they dressed for breakfast. Mary would play the part of a woman unsuspecting of her husband's inabilities in marriage, soothing his fragile male ego with, "I'm sorry, George, my love, not today. Perhaps tomorrow, you know I'm still having my woman's problems."

More so a man's problem, George had suffered a heart attack that had left him impotent three years prior. Try as he might, and as much as they both desired it, that part of their life together appeared to be over. Mary didn't mind, for at her age, she found peace and appreciation of the times they did have together that way, countless in number.

It had happened that one day, as she called him to lunch. Mary found George in the parlor, collapsed on the floor clutching his chest as the attack hit him. Returning the favors of his past, she, using the undying love a wife has for her husband, picked him up and carried him to the sofa, screaming for Wendy's aid.

George recovered quickly, and altered his lifestyle on the advice of the family's doctor, Uncle Harry, just enough to prevent not only another attack, but his premature departure from the life he loved. Now George and Mary enjoyed each other's company and simple affections, his only for her, and hers just the same for him.

Wendy watched her parents aging, and it bothered her to know that one day, maybe not soon, but definitely in the future, she would be left alone. It did not matter to her who died first, although she was sure it would be her father, in her eyes her mother would last quite a while without him. So when she did attend church, which was not often, she prayed to God to keep them in good health and happy spirits.

Wendy no longer wrote or told stories, instead she painted, and the Darling house was filled with portraits. Michael, Grandpa Joe, John, Jane, Joseph and Edmund, Mary and George, from childhood to adulthood, at the times she remembered them best, all created from memory. Wendy even painted Penny, Margaret and Martine, always together, and Mrs. Elizabeth Baker, the grandmother Wendy never knew, from her mother's vivid and specific descriptions. There were paintings she kept for herself that she did not share with another soul, those of her darling love, Captain Hook. He decorated the walls of the attic in numerous pictures, portraits, doodles, and sketches. Most of them drawn with anything she could get her hands on when the image flashed in her mind. Some were in pencil, some in crayon, most in watercolors, all the same, Captain Hook standing before her posing in his regal pirate attire. The only difference in the prints were his smiles: love, affection, devotion, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, adoring grins just for her and all that they had once had together.

Her favorite pictures, those expressing a certain moment in time she held within her heart, she finished in oil paint on canvas and had framed. Completed, they were too painful to gaze upon, so she covered them with a drop cloth, keeping them from her sight.

"Wendy, would you come with me to church?" Mary asked as George napped on his favorite chair in the parlor.

Wendy descended the stairs covered in different hues of chalk, her newest drawing materials. "Why? You just went yesterday," Wendy answered, passing by her mother on the way to the kitchen to rummage the cupboards for a snack.

Grabbing an apple, she turned to face Mary who was fixing her coat and gloves ready to leave, "Yes I know, but today is my mother's birthday. I want to light a candle for her. We don't have to stay for mass, just light a candle and then we can leave. I would ask your father to go, but with his legs and…" She nodded her head with a loving grin toward her husband. George rested in his chair, deep in a dream, mumbling incoherently, apparently trying to gather the courage to hand a bouquet of pink roses in full bloom to a princess in her tower.

Wendy smiled too, shaking her head, "I hope he's not losing his mind. All right Mother, but just one candle, and then we're leaving. I have a student this afternoon."

Wendy did have a vocation; she had become a well-respected (and much-desired) art teacher for gifted children. She tutored them in the nursery everyday, weekends included. Her first student arrived in the afternoon, just as school let out, each lesson lasting an hour, and then, one by one, the children flooded in and out until well after nine. Each child remained later, begging her for permission to stay longer than the allotted time. Wendy had a waiting list, simply not having enough time in the day to teach everyone that wanted to learn her skill, and still have any time to put her own imagination on paper and canvas. As it was, she drew alone well into the night, using the moonlight as her guide. Today, she was blending the new chalks she received as a birthday present. She mixed it with the clay John and his family had sent, also another present. (John and Caroline had increased their family by two more children in those five years.) She had already completed a miniature bust of Captain Hook, no bigger then her clenched fist, she mounted and kept on her new drawing table, a Christmas gift from her parents.

Wendy loved children and she loved spending her days with children, sharing with them openly her creative imagination and whimsical thinking. "My father says I should be drawing flowers and tea pots, not castles with dragons," a student would say with a frown as Wendy questioned what work of art should come next.

"Do you want to paint flowers and tea pots? Or would you prefer castles with dragons?"

Of course, the student preferred castles with dragons that breathed fire over the moat with a rope bridge, so that is what Wendy showed them how to do. "If your father still wants you to paint teapots after seeing this, have him come to see me." The father would come ranting and raving, breathing a little fire himself, and only a few minutes in her studio, he would be aproned, elbow deep in finger-paints smearing colors over a canvas to show himself flying a kite on a clear day over a grassy hillside.

Wendy washed her hands and ran a comb hastily through her hair, which usually fell in disarray as she worked. "You are not going like that are you?" Mary said, wide eyed at her daughter, "What will the parishioners think?"

Wendy sighed, annoyed, "They will think I am that crazy spinster lady who still lives with her parents and paints for children until the wee hours of morning, just like the neighbors do."

After Peter Pan was banished in both his world and theirs, Wendy's natural beauty had returned, her face and frame slimmed down to what it once was. Although she was a mature woman who never dated nor went out socially, she was still strikingly attractive, just like her mother had once been at that age. Not a gray hair could be found in her long hair, and not one wrinkle creasing her elegantly defined face. "Only one candle mother," Wendy reiterated as they entered the church.

Mary lit her candle kneeling, with Wendy standing behind her tapping her shoe. Mary finished her prayer at the candle and directed Wendy to a pew. "I said just one candle," Wendy whispered as Mary pulled out her rosary beads and began praying.

"I can't just light a candle saying a prayer telling God who it's for and then leave, Wendy, it's rude," Mary hushed back, gazing at the confessional nearest them.

"Really, mother, why did you even have to light a candle? You don't think God knows it's you mother's birthday today? What, did He forget? Him forgetting your mother's birthday is rude."

Mary paid her daughter no mind and only patted her daughter's arm, smiling to herself, "Wendy, God is a very busy person, I'm sure He didn't forget, I only remind Him for good measure. You just can't ask Him for something and expect it done without earning it. Anyway, I want to have my confession heard; it's still early before mass. And you should have your confession heard as well. It's probably been years if not longer," Mary told her, pricking her only daughter's conscience into taking a seat beside her.

The confessional emptied of another older woman, and Mary got up and went inside. She was in there for quite a long time, much longer than one would need to confess the sins of being impatient with her husband and saying 'damn' when she accidentally spilled her tea on the magazine she was reading that morning. The mass had already begun when Mary finally emerged and knelt beside her daughter.

"You know, gossiping to a priest is a sin, so you are ready for the next time mother." Wendy mocked as she pulled out a hymnal to sing along with the organ. Mary did not respond only holding her eyes shut praying down her rosary beads one by one.

"Can we stay to hear the sermon?" Mary inquired to a fuming Wendy. Wendy looked heavenward and shook her head, knowing the sermon was the very last thing that came all the way at the end of the mass.

"But, Wendy, I have to say my penance."

Wendy still shook her head, but sighed, "Fine."

The priest said a quick mass, almost as if he were racing to the sermon, which came with his proud introduction of the newest priest to join their parish. Mary watched the man stand up from behind the altar where he was helping serve, and smiled politely to the members of their church.

Wendy paid no attention, picking at the chalk that seemed to be permanently imbedded under her fingernails. "What a handsome priest, did you hear what his name was?" Mary nudged her daughter, lost in a daydream, who responded, "I think the priest called him Father What-a-waste."

Mary jerked her head to Wendy and pinched her arm. "This is not our house, Gwendolyn Angelina, this is the house of the Lord, show some respect and apologize."

Wendy shrugged her shoulders, not about to apologize to God or her mother; she thought her joke was rather witty.

Mary maintained her stern expression as mass ended. "Sorry, Mother," Wendy finally gave in.

"Don't apologize to me, this is not my house and that priest is not my servant in it. Apologize to him." Mary pointed her finger to the confessional in time to see Father What-a-Waste emerge from behind, heading in. A very defeated and somewhat frightened Wendy slowly walked to the door, shooting her mother a backwards glance, Mary only goading her forward, "Go on, he won't bite, although he should for your poor attitude."

The confessional is a very strange little room; there is a seat, a place to kneel, and a peculiar metal slatted window separating the priest, acting in God's place, and the parishioner confessing their sins. In the Bible school Wendy attended as a child, the nun instructed her never to look through that window at the priest, not that she could see his face clearly, only his outline hidden behind little rows of open spaces evenly lined in the darkness and shadows, a soft light from the solitary bulb that hung above her. It had been quite a few years since her last confession, at least a quarter of a century, and Wendy Darling had forgotten how to perform the sacrament.

Wendy sat on the cushioned seat of crimson velvet, and eavesdropped on the other person who knelt on the other side confessional, the priest sitting in the middle box, separating the two. She only listened to the opening prayer the person said and then hummed a few bars of her favorite tune, dropping off once in a while to make sure they were still busy confessing. She heard the last prayer spoken, which helped jog her memory enough to be prepared when the priest moved to Wendy's side, and slid back the door opening the window, letting her gaze for the first time in many years at "God" hidden in the shadows.

The priest's profile was barely visible between the darkness of the booth he sat in, turned in the seated position with his hand raised to cover what was exposed to sight through the small holes in the window. Wendy suddenly found her mind blank and rambled as if he was anyone she was meeting for the first time on the street, "Hello, I'm Wendy Darling." She quickly shook her head feeling the fool.

The priest spoke back in a mild and somewhat comforting tone, "Hello, Wendy, I'm Father Dunange." Wendy was still uncomfortably silent not knowing where to start so Father Dunange helped her along with, "What sins do you have to confess?"

"Oh, right, sins, yes, that's why I'm here. Well, actually it's been a rather long time since I've made penance, or a confession, for that matter, I don't know how long. No, that's a lie; it's been twenty-five years. The last time I went was on my twelfth birthday, I think, my Grandpa Joe made me go and I gave him a real hard time. Oh yes, I just gave my mother a hard time about being in here right now. She was just in here before mass. I called you Father What-a-waste and that's the reason she made me come in here to begin with." Wendy bit her lip, worried that the priest would think her either silly or insane at her rambling, still shaking her head utterly embarrassed.

"So in the past twenty-five years you haven't been to confession, you've lied, let's use the good old term, 'without number' and sometimes you give people a hard time. Does that sound correct?" The priest responded, his voice the same.

"And I called you Father What-a-waste." Wendy added ready to bang her head against the wall in her humiliation. The nun had told Wendy that priests in the confessional acting on God's behalf cast no personal judgment on other's sins and they are trained to show no emotion.

Father Dunange gave a slight chuckle, and repeated amused by her candor, "Yes, and you called me Father What-a-waste. Is there anything else?"

Wendy shook her head, which he obviously did not see, for he said, "I understand that you are nervous, this being something that you are not doing on your own accord. Maybe you should come back at another time when you are ready, and then together we will work through your sins and see that you are forgiven. Twenty five years of living is a very long time, and I'm sure there are other things you have not mentioned."

Wendy nodded and responded, "Yes, that is what's best."

Wendy stood to leave and the priest interrupted with, "Just promise me, Gwendolyn, that you will return."

Wendy slowly turned her head to the window that separated them, "How did you know that my name was Gwendolyn? I said Wendy."

She moved closer and peered in through the open slats, recognizing not only the words but also voice and the emotions it carried with it. "Please child, you are not allowed to see me when I hear confessions," Father Dunange reminded her and offered, "Your mother told me your name was Gwendolyn, I'm sorry, if you prefer to be called Wendy. I just think Gwendolyn is such a lovely name."

Wendy sat back. "Yes…yes, it is. But no one calls me Gwendolyn anymore." She touched her hand to the grate, responding, "I promise I will return..." She opened the door to the confessional and stood in the way of another woman anxious for the Lord's forgiveness. "To you," she added with tears flooding her eyes as she gazed off into nothingness.

"Did a bolt of lightening strike you when you were confessing?" Mary asked Wendy, pulling her by the arm into a pew out of the way, letting the next sinner pass into the confessional. "Why are you crying, Wendy?"

"What did you say?" Wendy replied when she returned to herself. Before Mary could speak, Wendy asked, "Mother, who heard your confession, the new priest? And you told him my name was Gwendolyn?" Mary nodded yes to both her daughter's questions. "Did you recognize anything about him? I mean…was there anything about him you found, well, familiar?"

Mary shrugged her shoulders as they left the church and walked home, "No, he seemed a very understanding man. He's French I think. He told me his last name Dunange, it mean 'of an angel' in French. I thought it rather lovely, him being a priest and all. I told him your name as I spoke of all your good work with the children. But more so, I was talking to him about your father and his health, and how much I love him and have to care for him, and sometimes I wish I didn't." Mary grabbed Wendy to gain her attention, "I didn't mean I want your father to pass on, I just wish that we were still younger and your father was in better health, that's all I meant. I would never wish death upon anyone, least of all your father. I'm afraid if he were to die before me…"

"You would go soon after, I know mother, and I fear the same thing. But look on the bright side, if father went to heaven and you went soon after, then you would only be apart for a short while before being reunited again, and you would both be young again in Heaven." Wendy smiled and embraced her mother, Mary returning the smile, grasping Wendy's hand tightly as they made their way home.

That afternoon, all Wendy could think about was the voice and his words. The sound of it that replayed in her head gave her the most exquisite feeling of bliss she had experienced in years. She pranced through her lessons, rushing her last student out early so she could get to work. Then she realized -- she had not seen his face. She sat staring at her blank canvas the entire night, wanting desperately to draw something, only making yet another devastating revelation, Father Dunange was a priest who swore an oath to serve God and gave up his rights to being a man.

"His vow of celibacy alone would surely make him unapproachable," the maid who cleaned her studio joked, after Wendy told of her dilemma.

"I must see him again, I mean speak with him again, Father Dunange, he made me feel so … at peace with myself," Wendy explained to her mother, trying to drag her to mass later in the week.

"All right Wendy, I'll go. Good to see your faith in other things aside from your imagination has returned."

They went to mass only to find Father Dunange not there. "Where is he, did he leave? Was he sent away? Why? When will he return? He is coming back isn't he?" Wendy questioned the bishop that held his residence at that particular church as mass ended.

"Father Dunange is working at the church mission today child, he has not gone anywhere. He will be back at mass tomorrow." The bishop nodded to Mary who was doing her best to keep up with Wendy as she chased after him.

"Will he be hearing confessions?" Wendy shouted as the poor bishop exited through the magical doors leading to the altar and rooms beyond hidden in the church, "Yes Miss Darling, he will hear confessions all day," he shouted back, causing the nuns kneeling in the front row to genuflect repeatedly.

"Goodness Wendy, you can have any priest hear your confession--" Mary began.

Wendy reacted, "Oh no mother, it must be Father Dunange and no other. I promised him I would return…I have to tell him the truth, he must know everything I have done." Wendy took her mother by the hand and dragged her the whole way home.

"Wendy, why don't you go and see him at the mission if you want to speak with him so badly."

Wendy turned on her heel and faced her mother. "Oh no, Mother, I must tell him the truth in the confessional with God watching."

Wendy flew through the front door and up the stairs, grabbing her student who had been waiting anxiously in the parlor with George.

Mary followed her in, out of breath dropped down on the sofa. "Mary, is that you?"

George had removed his spectacles and had knocked them on the floor accidentally. He had long given up on searching for them by the time his wife and daughter had returned. Mary sighed, seeing him squinting and gazing about trying to see through the clouds of his vision. "Mary?" he repeated, Mary picked up his glasses and placed them upon his face. "Oh that is better, Mary could you read me a letter John sent. It arrived today in the post." Mary sighed again, for it seemed her days were now filled with being at her husband's beck and call, for without her, he could not function.

In a rather irritated voice she began, "Dear Father and Mother, I am writing this letter with much joy in my heart--"

George interrupted with, "What did you say Mary, could you read a bit louder."

Mary moved her mouth only inches from George's ear and began shouting, "DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER…"

She got not further, for George touched her arm and offered, "You are probably busy Mary. I'll just have the maid read this to me later." Mary was busy, she had her afternoon planned out to the moment, and going to church with Wendy had made her late for her weekly lunch date. Mary ran into the kitchen to inform the housekeeper she was again leaving and brushed her lips quickly to her husband's cheek before departing the house into the afternoon sunlight.

Mary only made it to the front sidewalk before gazing into the front window. George sat by himself with the letter from John in his hand looking about the room. Since his eyesight failed him completely, there was really nothing George could do. He could no longer play cards or chess without help. He couldn't read for himself, or even make his way around the house without bumping into things. His hearing was also failing, and it was difficult for anyone but Mary to hold conversations with him. At their gatherings, he had become a silent statue who laughed on cue from his wife. She had told his buddies, "Don't bother, he can't hear you unless you yell at him," when they would stop by to share news, and so they stopped coming. Mary looked down the block, a lovely lunch with her best friend or the laborious routine of aiding her husband. The choice for Mary was easy, she stepped back into the house and nodded to the maid heading upstairs to do her tidying, "If Harry calls for me, tell him I am spending the day with my husband."

"George, would you like to go for a walk with me?" Mary patted his shoulder and he looked up at her, "I would love to, Mary."

Mary helped him with his coat and hat. Together they strolled around the park and then back home. George retook his seat and waited, "It's alright, Mary, you can go now if you like, I'll be fine." Mary made no sound, but waited as well. George sat in his chair with perfect posture, straight as a board and looked about. "Mary? Are you there?" She said nothing and only waited. The silence of the room was finally broken when her husband of many years whimpered, "Bye, Mary."

Mary sat beside him and waited another moment before speaking up, "George, what are doing?"

He looked to his side where she was seated, and responded. "Oh nothing, Mary, just relaxing. I'm thinking of taking a nap." He performed a false yawn stretching out his arms causing her to giggle.

Mary touched his cheek, "Bored, George?"

George sighed, relieved that she had finally noticed, "I feel useless, Mary, there is nothing I can do. I know I am poor company, you can go out, it's alright."

That was completely untrue; there were many things George could do. "You can do anything you want, George," Mary told him, still keeping her hand on his face. He kissed her palm, offering her reassurance, "You're right Mary, you go to your lunch and I'll…" He looked about and back to her clueless of a task he would be able to perform without her assistance.

"I missed my lunch, George, walking with you," Mary told him, and George apologetically interrupted, "I'm sorry, Mary, you were so looking forward to it."

"No, George, I was looking forward to spending my afternoon with you. You know, my love, we should do everything together like we used to. You are not just going to sit around all day and look about like you are lost. If I go to the grocer's you're going with me, the same for the baker and the butcher, the booksellers or emporium. If I am in the kitchen, you'll be there with me, if I'm outside in the garden, you're coming as well." That was it, Mary's mind was made up and there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind.

"But Mary, I can't walk as well as I used to. As it was, you nearly carried me home from the park."

"I'll carry you then, George, everywhere we go, but wherever I am you will be there beside me, no matter what, and I don't want to hear another word about it." Mary chuckled, as did he.

"Maybe just one word, Mary. I can certainly use a cane to help me along."

Mary nodded, "Yes, we will get you a cane, and we will learn new things to do together. You are my husband and I am your wife, we should be together always. This is our time together, and we will spend every moment that way. Now where is John's letter?" George had it tucked in his pocket and Mary read it aloud to him, with enough volume that he could understand every word she spoke.

"What do you want to do together now, Mary?" George happily asked when she was finished, thinking better of it and adding, "Only if you want to, Mary."

"Oh course I want to George, don't be silly. Today, I'm going to teach you how to bake cookies."

George gave his wife a baffled expression, "Cookies, Mary?"

Mary led him walking backwards to the kitchen smiling at his quizzical face. "Oh yes, dear, cookies. We will make them together."

They made cookies together, baked bread, crumpets and many other things. The cook spent the better parts of her days sitting in George's chair in the parlor reading the paper and drinking tea, relieved of her duty as George had found his own talent in cooking. Mary aproned him as Wendy did for her students and together they worked through recipe after recipe delighting in their delicious creations. There was always something new cooling on the window ledge. They made so many things all at once, they spent most afternoons strolling about London, or being driven by their daughter to friends' homes dropping off their pies, cakes, soufflés and tarts complete with a posh plate of Mary's finest china wrapped with a pretty blue bow and card, "Made with Love from George & Mary's kitchen."

George had worried Mary would never see her lovely patterned bone china again, but she claimed, "What good are those dishes if they sit in the cabinet and never used only on holidays George? When we give them away, every day is a holiday." He need not be concerned; the plates always came back washed and whole, with a note of thanks and a polite request for more.

Cooking is not the only skill George mastered for Mary did a lot of research with the aid of her daughter at the local University. "It is called Braille, Mother, if father can learn it, he will be able to read again."

George, Mary and Wendy all learned it, paying a tutor to come to their home three nights a week to work with the Darling family. Soon Harry also took lessons and John in America with his six sons learned it as well. "There are not that many books that have been printed in Braille and they are hard to find and very expensive," the instructor told Mr. and Mrs. Darling, and Mary, believing in God and His almighty power, prayed that He would make available to her all the books in Braille the good Lord could, no matter what the cost. God listened and smiled down, proud of Mary Darling for finally showing proper appreciation of the glorious gift the man George truly was.

John in America contacted an institute located within the states that specialized in aiding the blind, although George would not admit he was completely without vision. "I can see, just not very well." Mary received a huge box filled with books printed in Braille from John and his family, donated for free. Harry had the same idea, and whatever books John did not supply he gathered the rest, not accepting any kind of payment from his brother for his time or expense. The church helped as well, presenting George with a copy of the Bible in Braille that he worked through first. He sat in the parlor after dinner and continually repeated to his wife, "I'm reading Mary, I'm reading. Cain just told God, 'am I my brother's keeper?'"

The best part for Mary was that George was the most developed in his new reading skills, therefore, while Mary worked arduously through a copy of Little Women, she became the one who asked for help, "What is this word, George, I don't remember this formation of points."

George would lean over, feel over the printed points and repeated the sentence to her word for word. "I planned to spend mine in new music, said Beth…that's what it says Mary…Mary, music!"

As George requested, music came next. His hearing was not as far spent as his eyesight, so as long as it was played loud enough, he could hear it. George and Mary purchased a Victrola, a beautiful piece of furniture to sit in their parlor that played recordings. It was quite expensive, but George felt some items were worth whatever they cost, no matter what the expense. The first month it was home, George, Mary, and Uncle Harry, would sit by it and listen to the same few records play over and over again. God need not help Mary this time, Wendy was far ahead of her mother, and used as much of her own money as she could spare, barring her own operating cost of running her makeshift school, and bought her parents an entire library of music albums.

So there they sat, George and Mary Darling in their parlor, reading Braille and listening to music together every evening. They had a schedule together, and they maintained it. They awoke at the same time, dressed, ate breakfast, took a walk, made cookies and lunch, and spent their afternoon working on their new lesson. They made dinner and ate with their family and then retired to the comfort of their sitting room for the night's enjoyments. Every day, George and Mary spent their afternoon learning together. Whether it be crocheting or sculpting, they tried and tried and tried until they mastered it, together, before trying something different. And every night when they retired back in bed, they spent at least an hour talking back and forth over their new adventures always ending with, "Today was the best day of my life, thank you for spending it with me. I love you, sweet dreams."