We've just returned from a friend's wedding and it was great. There was dancing. There was the most amazing food I've ever had at a wedding. There was some alcohol and did I mention there was dancing? I love dancing and sometimes miss my carefree student days where every night was spent in a different club. The only similarity between those nights being my outfit (jeans and tshirt top usually in black) and my joyous abandonment of pride to strut my stuff on the dancefloor . . .or to shuffle sullenly if it was Goth night.
Fast forward to last week (and there's a time shift that could have Dr Who wondering if a paradox is imminent) and I was reunited with my dancing buddie of old. Sure she was in a wedding dress and I'd only just swopped my bridesmaid dress for something more akin to a clubbing outfit, but our steps and energy were unchanged from our teens. Luckily my little boy had fallen asleep and so had my husband so the dancing was uninterrupted by mothering or wifely duties. It was just me, my friend and the music (ignoring all the other guests!). Sometimes that's just the way it has to be.
I danced till the DJ packed up, till the bus came to collect the other guests, and that unadulterated joy almost drowned out the melancholy that can threaten when I witness a marriage. You see despite the fancy frocks, love and happiness that characterise most weddings, I always hear a little ticking clock in the background. It's such a momentous step. A marker and milestone along life's way that can prompt thoughts of how far you've already travelled and where you're heading. Perhaps I was more sensitive to this than usual because it was also my birthday. Age does feel elastic yet the numbers on the cards prove I should be older, wiser, grown up. Yet, I don't feel any different from the teenager with the bad hair who danced every night.
I love that having a child allows me to draw, colour in, play and pretend. It's permission to be a child again and wonder at the world. Yet I wonder how many of these memories we're making will actually be my son's. After all, few of us have memories of our lives before the age of two. Are the day trips, photos and games for my benefit or his? Probably I'll be the only one who will look back on them: a record of his firsts; a web of emotions, colours and experiences; soundtracked with laughter, tears and those strange little squeaky noises he makes when playing. He doesn't need to share my memories of this time just as he can't share my memories of the time I went clubbing. He's living in the moments of our days. I'm already cataloguing and documenting. . . .except when I'm dancing . . .and singing . . .and playing. I'm glad I didn't take my camera to the wedding. It was about enjoying not capturing and the combination of a sleeping child, a cheesy music selection and my very best friend, made it a perfect night.
Fast forward to last week (and there's a time shift that could have Dr Who wondering if a paradox is imminent) and I was reunited with my dancing buddie of old. Sure she was in a wedding dress and I'd only just swopped my bridesmaid dress for something more akin to a clubbing outfit, but our steps and energy were unchanged from our teens. Luckily my little boy had fallen asleep and so had my husband so the dancing was uninterrupted by mothering or wifely duties. It was just me, my friend and the music (ignoring all the other guests!). Sometimes that's just the way it has to be.
I danced till the DJ packed up, till the bus came to collect the other guests, and that unadulterated joy almost drowned out the melancholy that can threaten when I witness a marriage. You see despite the fancy frocks, love and happiness that characterise most weddings, I always hear a little ticking clock in the background. It's such a momentous step. A marker and milestone along life's way that can prompt thoughts of how far you've already travelled and where you're heading. Perhaps I was more sensitive to this than usual because it was also my birthday. Age does feel elastic yet the numbers on the cards prove I should be older, wiser, grown up. Yet, I don't feel any different from the teenager with the bad hair who danced every night.
I love that having a child allows me to draw, colour in, play and pretend. It's permission to be a child again and wonder at the world. Yet I wonder how many of these memories we're making will actually be my son's. After all, few of us have memories of our lives before the age of two. Are the day trips, photos and games for my benefit or his? Probably I'll be the only one who will look back on them: a record of his firsts; a web of emotions, colours and experiences; soundtracked with laughter, tears and those strange little squeaky noises he makes when playing. He doesn't need to share my memories of this time just as he can't share my memories of the time I went clubbing. He's living in the moments of our days. I'm already cataloguing and documenting. . . .except when I'm dancing . . .and singing . . .and playing. I'm glad I didn't take my camera to the wedding. It was about enjoying not capturing and the combination of a sleeping child, a cheesy music selection and my very best friend, made it a perfect night.
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