I listened intently as she scrolled through pictures on her phone, to the delight of a gathering crowd of ooh-ers and aah-ers, all of whom seemed relieved to learn that the event had gone off without a hitch.
And there's my beautiful little man, she said. Lord, I hoped she wasn't referring to her husband, and if she was, I was thinking there might not be too many wonderful parties without a hitch in their future. As it turns out, the "little man" is her son, the guest of honor at the party, his first birthday extravaganza.
A minor but fortuitous flood in my laundry room the other day led me to the large bin of old pictures that had moved with me, a few years ago, from the spacious home where I did the lion's share of my child rearing to the little town house where I am finishing off the job. I am a little more than a year away from the third official launch from the payroll and the premises that I have already experienced twice, with a bittersweet mix of elation and melancholy, with college graduation. She's barely home anymore, and the more she stays away, the smaller my townhouse feels. Funny, as they leave, how the walls seem to close in.
I dug through the bin, rescuing first the damp photographs from the side of the bin where water had seeped through. The damage was minimal, but still, the faces were barely recognizable. My oldest daughter, soon to be married, dressed in full Minnie Mouse regalia, smiling from one large, round mouse ear to the other. My son, my creative adventurer living halfway around the world, the chubby little brother with two fingers nestled in his mouth, his belly poking out from a pair of Mickey Mouse suspenders. Years later, the baby sister, mugging for the camera, the way baby sisters do, while her siblings seemed so grown up, at least at the time. Suddenly, they all looked so small.
There were pictures from first birthday parties -- three of them. Cake stained faces, plump cheeks twisted into baffled grimaces as they sat in a sea of torn wrapping paper. All the grandparents were there; birthdays in those early years were reason enough to hop on a plane.
I ventured over to the growing gaggle of ooh-ers and aah-ers surrounding the woman who was talking about the most wonderful party. There was a balloon artist, and a three-tiered cake. The mom was wearing a spectacular red dress, dad was wearing a suit. I wondered if it had been painstakingly planned for months, as my daughter's upcoming wedding has been. I wondered if she knew this seemed a bit extravagant for a one-year old. And then I remembered how nothing seems too extravagant for your own one-year-old. There is, after all, a lot to celebrate after that first year. Let them eat a three tiered cake.
Mostly, when I look back, I think of the celebrations, the milestones, the parties. But I rarely think back to how they were, on ordinary days, dressed like cartoon mice, smiling from mouse ear to mouse ear. I rarely think about how I thought they would always be little, how skeptical I was when my pediatrician had assured me, all those years ago, that when my daughter got married she would not have a pacifier in her mouth. Married? No pacifier? It all seemed so absurd.
In a little more than a month, my oldest daughter will become somebody's wife. It's an odd feeling, knowing that this person, my little Minnie Mouse, is launching for keeps this time, forming the beginnings of her own family. As the wedding draws near, as I fear that I must hand her over to somebody else, we draw ever closer. Launching, maybe, but not going away.
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