Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

Count-down

The wedding in Ireland takes place just over two weeks away. Two weeks in which I must primp, pluck and preen away two years of self-neglect. Two weeks in which to pray that the summer's long diet to rid myself of post-pregnancy weight has worked well enough for me to fit into a fashionable outfit. An outfit sans even the merest hint of smocks, peasantry or burgeoning bellies. An outfit I can wear with no-one, but no-one, not even the kindliest and most well-meaning, pointedly asking me about due dates or plans to have more children.

Two weeks in which I must:

1. Brave the Lewis' hat department to choose something called a 'fascinator' for my hair. Preserve it from Beanie's merciless ministrations. Wonder which Potter book it appeared in. Convince self I do not look ridiculous in it.

2. Repair to the local Floatarium for revitalising hour in a water tank. Resist temptation to draw unflattering parallels between self and Bertie's mum, the fictional Irene from Alexander McCall Smith's Scotland Street. A lady who also frequents the Floatarium - in her case, with controversial results.

3. Brush up on non-baby-related small talk. Perhaps find out if a World Cup beckons later this year. So that when people talk about 'the match' I'll know which one.

4. Psyche self up to be in roomful of mostly new people. On my own, without Va-vay (who's babysitting).

5. Remove, by scrubbing if necessary, any rejected fish pie or other gloop engrained on my person, hair or clothes.

6. Resist temptation to tell everyone I meet at the wedding that they should have a blog.

7. Unearth the nice underwear I last wore on honeymoon, before I got pregnant and outlawed underwireds to the back of the chest of drawers. As a friend said: "They did their job well, those bras." Probably repress dismay that I'll never again be a 36C. Try to be happy that at least Va-vay is pleased by my increased chest size.

8. Get hair do. Rejoice in freedom to have highlights done - as not pregnant.

9. Find wedding present

10. Remember to apply expensive face creams Va-vay brought back as gift from his weekend away. Dismiss negative thoughts that he might be trying to tell me something with this choice of present.

11. Train myself not to coo, trill, babble or sing at adult wedding guests.

12. Savour thought of returning from travels with handbag mysteriously devoid of crumbled infant rice cakes.

13. Look forward to being on plane where it will not be my job to soothe, feed or hush my poor, traumatised daughter as her ear drums get sore, and she wails in despair that she doesn't understand where she is or what's happening to her.

14. Try to convince myself I won't miss her like mad, that I won't be thinking of her every minute I'm away from her.

Can it be done? I'll let you all know. The last one, number fourteen, will be the hardest by a long chalk. Wish me luck.

Posted 28 August 2007 21:22

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