Chapter 3: The Merger

Oliver met Carla when their two youngest children were enrolled in a cooperative nursery school. Back then, it was his daughter Nia and her son Tim, ages 3 and 4 respectively. In exchange for reduced tuition, each parent was required to work one day each week in the school. One day they watching the kids take their early afternoon naps and comparing war stories. After a few rounds of “can you top this?” anecdotes, Carla broke off and looked him in the eye.

“You know, Oliver, sometimes I’m so exhausted I don’t even feel like picking up the TV remote. But other times, I’ve been daydreaming. About you. Would you like to come over for some playtime?”

“Playtime? Oh. I see by your expression you mean, uh, serious playtime. Wow. Really? I’d love to, but how?”

“Tomorrow at lunchtime, our kids will all be in school, including the two that are here. Can you take a personal day?”

“You bet I can! But first...”

He leaned over and kissed her.

“Oh, she’s wonderful! What’s this? That’s one enthusiastic tongue. She’s so hot. Uh-oh, stupid pants. I need to adjust, oh, ow. She’s got her hand down there, making it worse.”

“Carla, um, I need some space.”

“You’re breaking up with me? From our first kiss? You bastard!”

“No, no, the opposite! My pants are killing me, I need to stand up and, well, adjust myself.”

“OK, sweetie. My fault, I guess. Go ahead.”

They were married about three months after that, surrounded at the front by their six children. Oliver’s oldest (Andrew) was his best man, and Carla’s maid of honor was Leah, her oldest. Collectively, their youngest child was Nia (Tania), one of Oliver’s kids. Thrilled, Nia was prancing up the aisle, scattering flower petals in a tiny fairy dress.

Officially now, the six of them are a blended family. Sadly, neither the bride nor groom had living parents or relatives attending the ceremony.

It started at the reception. One of the more lubricated guests walked up to the couple and brayed, “You’re the Brady Bunch! Husband, wife, six kids. Just like TV. Marcia Marcia Marcia. Ha-ha-ha.”

Carla was very uncomfortable. She hadn’t made the comparison until then. The old TV show was a distant memory. Suddenly, the prospect of fending off stupidity for the rest of her life haunted her.

At the same time, Oliver was facing the lout with a stern expression. When his spring wound down, he waited a couple of uncomfortable silent beats. He said, icily, “Never heard of it,” and abruptly turned away, dismissing him as beneath notice. Confused, the man wavered and then wandered away, looking for the bar.

Silently, Carla cheered while Oliver moved on to a friendly chat with other guests.

“I love him so much. That was perfect!”

On their honeymoon, after two exquisite consummations, Carla spoke to her new husband about the reception.

“Ollie, everything went perfect except for that drunken asshole. We’re going to be hearing about the ‘B’ word, that stupid ass TV show, for years. Your last name is Bailey, we’ll be called ‘The Bailey Bunch.’”

“I know, but worthwhile people won’t make a big deal about it. And rude fuckers like that guy are going to find out just how impolite I can be. I’ll be Mike Tyson, not Mike Brady.”

“My hero! May I ask, politely, would you care for some well-deserved fellatio?”