A Fête Accompli

The disapproving look on the waiter's face suggested that I may have been a bit too hasty when he came over to see if anyone wanted something to drink. "YES!!!" I said it with more conviction than I have said anything recently, and so loudly that the hearing impaired octogenarian foursome at the next table took a break in their own screaming conversation so they wouldn't miss anything good. Sloppy drunk. I know that's what they were all thinking.

I covered my tracks quickly and, as always, with grace and cleverness. God forbid anyone should think I was desperate for a mind numbing buzz, I explained to the waiter that we were celebrating multiple special and happy occasions, milestones and accomplishments that all called for toasts. The alcohol was just a formality, an ingredient I certainly didn't need in my double martini when I was already giddy on life. (I'm not a complete idiot; I stopped short of actually saying that.) "My son is on his way to Japan tomorrow," I bragged. "To teach English." The waiter seemed impressed. Apparently he knew someone once who went to Korea. Well we're practically related, I was thinking, toying with the idea of inviting him to sit down and join us.

Repressing my basest sarcastic urges (at least he knew Korea was just a missile's throw across the water, which I had only confirmed during my two A.M.  Google tutorial a few nights earlier), I continued in warm and fuzzy mode. "And we," I said, motioning to my husband who, coincidentally, was sitting as far from me as he could at the round table, "are celebrating our twenty-sixth anniversary today." Now the waiter was clearly getting swept up in the joy and excitement that had just been seated in his station. Before he could tell us that he knew someone once who was married for twenty-six years, I pointed to my daughters on either side of me, letting him know that we were within a couple weeks of both of their birthdays. He looked like he was about to break into song. Heck, I even tossed in my half birthday, telling him exactly how old I was so he would not need to waste time asking to see my ID.

All fixed. The old folks at the next table had gone back to their plates of dry fish and steamed vegetables, and things seemed relatively calm at our table. My husband was no longer glaring at me, and the kids had stopped trying to sink under the table. I could see all their heads. They were even laughing. Well, they were laughing and rolling their eyes at each other the way they usually do when they think time is running out and soon they're going to have to have me committed, but they've been doing that for years so I'm not too worried.

The drinks arrived. We toasted our son's impending departure, wishing him all the best. I tried to keep my wishes for his speedy return to myself, but somehow I said it out loud. Oopsy. We toasted our daughters' birthdays, and I managed to repress my mixed feelings about my youngest getting her driver's license in two weeks. And my husband and I raised our glasses to each other, toasting our twenty-sixth, each of us silently hoping that there would be no twenty-seventh. (We were together a long time; I have no trouble knowing what he was thinking.)

Dinner was easy. Returning home to watch helplessly while my son packed and to wait anxiously for him to give me little assignments so I could feel important was the hard part. The six complementary desserts our waiter had brought so we could top off our happiness had diluted the calming effects of my martini, and I was feeling downright weepy. At least when my idiot neighbor stopped in and somehow got to talking about how certain kids were screwed up and explained to my kids that "that's what happens when families break up," I watched with pride -- and glee -- as my children cracked up. Their laughter was genuine; it made me realize that even with our newly reconfigured family, they are going to be fine. Not perfect by any means, not perfect like all those children of intact families, but certainly fine.

In two hours I will take my son to the airport, stand by helplessly as he checks in, and wait and watch on tip toes and with a craned neck as he makes his way through the security line and disappears through that silly damn x-ray machine. The tears that just couldn't come last night will finally push their way to the surface and cloud my vision as I make my way back to the parking garage. I will indulge myself in a good cry, dedicating a portion of it to my father who, as it happens, passed away fourteen years ago this very day. I will be sad, as I always am on this day, that my dad was not around to see his grandchildren grow up, to see how great they all turned out. And then I will comfort myself, as I always do on this day, with thoughts of him watching over us, and enjoying the moments.

And, as is always the case, the tears will stop, I'll take a big swig of my coffee, and I'll drive off into the sunrise, ready for another day in Paradise. And, when I have time, as is always the case in the wee hours of the morning, I will start planning my visit to Himeji, Hyogo Prefecture (say that three times fast), Japan.