We’re here for a wedding. February. Minnesota. Seriously.

News of Ali’s sister Katy’s impending nuptials first reached us about six months ago. Since then not a day has gone by that we didn’t discuss it. Ouest was due to be the flower girl and Lowe to be the boy with the sign. Lowe didn’t care much, but Ouest couldn’t stop talking about it. The excitement was palpable.

Frankly, this day could not have come soon enough.

The ceremony was immediate family only. A small affair. Lowe was a little unsure about being left behind at the back of the room while Mama was way at the other end waiting for him. Eventually we convinced him to stay with me until it was his turn to walk the aisle. When I pushed him out there I told him to walk slowly, which he took quite literally, taking his own sweet time wandering down to Ali’s waiting arms. Ouest came next, tossing her flower petals perfectly after hundreds of trial runs in Mexico the past few months. I was left holding the camera at the back of the room, so we got no pictures of them performing their duties.

As a trader in the pits of the Chicago Board of Trade I had to—or rather, certain rules and security guards compelled me to—exude a certain air of professionalism. Because we had a viewing deck open to the public directly above our pit we all had to follow a particular dress code. No jeans—which most traders interpreted as no blue jeans. No tennis shoes—which most interpreted as no white shoes. Collared shirts—which ninety-nine percent of us interpreted as golf shirts. And a tie—which simply meant pulling the same tie, never untied, over our heads every morning and rolling it up to shove in our coat pocket every afternoon. Add to that attire a brightly colored trading jacket with eight pockets full of paper pricing sheets, charts, trading cards, pens, and membership badges, and we certainly exuded a professional air about us.

All this to say that for the wedding I put a tie around my neck for the first time since walking out of that trading pit twelve years ago. It took a few attempts to get it tied, a couple more to get the knot right, and another three or four to get the length right—I have always been an unprofessional slob. Anybody hiring?

Dinner was served buffet style, which meant a couple of hundred people rushing the food. To combat this, a rule was instituted in which each table had to have somebody sing a song with the word love in it in order to be released to eat. We were at the head table and were off the hook, but once Ouest saw everyone singing she tugged on my shirt and said, “I want to sing Katy a song.”

This girl never ceases to amaze me. I asked her what she wanted to sing. She didn’t know. So we sat there thinking for a minute, and realized we don’t know any songs that have the word love in the lyrics. And don’t even mention the Barney theme song, everybody asked if she knew that and the answer is no. Barney does not exist in our world.

So while we were thinking about it Ali’s aunt came over and told me they were starving, but nobody at their table would sing. She asked if Ouest would sing for them. We said she’d be more than happy to but we couldn’t think of any songs.

We sat mulling this over for a bit longer and then Ouest said to me, “I know a song I can sing.”

“You do? What is it?”

I Love You.

Love, Love, Love.

Everywhere.

That was it. An original.

We walked over to the starving table who quickly called the DJ over, and Ouest, in a nice strong voice sang her eight second song. And I couldn’t have been more proud of her for having such guts.

Dancing, dancing, and more dancing. Kids love wedding dances. How do they learn this? I’ve never known a man in my life that was excited about dancing, but somehow every little kid, boy or girl, loves to do it. Ali and I about melted when our kids spontaneously began to dance together. Awwww, man.

By eight our kids were totaled. Lowe was melting down and Ouest’s eyes were sinking into the back of her head. Thus ended my night out. I got them home, changed Lowe into his pajamas and laid him in bed while I helped Ouest get ready. I turned around two minutes later and he was snoring. Nine o’clock to our kids is like four in the morning to us.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I’ve known Katy since she was Ouest’s age, so seeing her happy, in love, and married, brings me a lot of joy. She’s a sweet girl and deserves it all. As for her husband, Mike, well he—like me—knows he just got lucky.