The Girl With Tears In Her Eyes

I packed the car early on Friday morning, and after breakfast the children and I (DH was planning to join us later) set off for Kingscourt and Nanny and Grandpa’s house. DH and I had been invited to a work colleague’s wedding in the North, so we had planned to go via his parents’ house, leaving the children with them overnight.

The car journey was, as anticipated, somewhat challenging. Ten minutes into the two-hour drive, the Small Girl began to fuss relentlessly:

“Mum, are we nearly there?”
“No darling, it will be a little while longer yet”
“Oh… can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s house?” she countered
“It’s probably not a good idea to start looking just yet” I replied, already feeling exasperated.
“Can I start lookin’ out for Nanny’s car then, Mum?” she asked, her voice starting to sound mildly hysterical.
“NANNY!” shouted the Very Small Boy in agreement.

I turned up the radio and began to sing along, in the hope of distracting them.

“Muuuummm! Stop singin’!” whined the Small Girl, with a very good approximation of teenage exasperation.
“Oh – don’t you like my singing?” I replied, sounding hurt.
“Well it’s OK… except for the words” She paused, before adding decisively “and the tune.”

When we arrived at the wedding the following day, I was feeling understandably nervous at the prospect of not drinking. I have to admit that, having only decided a couple of weeks ago to turn my back on alcohol, the idea of enforced sobriety whilst all around me were rolling drunk didn’t particularly appeal. And for the first few hours of socialising, I did miss that reassuring glass of wine in my hand. For one thing, it would have distracted me from missing the children. But in the end, I decided, remaining sober was simply a matter of having slightly less fun the night before and significantly more fun the morning after.

Shortly before making my excuses and retiring to bed, I sat idly near the band, watching the wedding guests on the dance floor. And suddenly I felt incredibly touched by the small details: an old couple dancing intently but frowning with serious concentration; a group of carefully groomed young women (their dresses complex, their hairstyles more so), tripping over their heels and laughing self-consciously; the Groom’s awkward movements as he danced with his bride, trying carefully to avoid stepping on the dirty hem of her beautiful dress.

I suppose to the casual observer, I must have looked like someone who’d had a few too many, but my tears really had nothing at all to do with alcohol. I was just a girl who was overwhelmed, suddenly, by the frailty of humanity, in all its beautiful vulnerability.