A Glimpse of Life’s Quick Passage

We went to a wedding in Chicago and I don’t remember how many White Russians I drank. Friends our age were relieved to see us partying. Dan and I were the only couple of our generation attending the wedding who had children.

“So there is life after kids,” a single guy said.

“You’re an inspiration,” the groom said.

“It’s great to see you out,” the friends who knew us well said.

I just laughed, downed another White Russian and told them I was getting my money’s worth. “We’re paying a sitter you know.”

It felt great to not be a parent for a night. It took being in another city with an agenda that told me where to be and what to wear. I felt weightless not carrying a diaper bag, a child and three bags of groceries. Because I was a bridesmaid, a beautician applied my make-up and curled and sprayed my hair. I had my nails cleaned of Play-Doh and Desitin and then painted a color called “Nude Whisper.” I didn’t even look like myself.

Dan confirmed my feeling of an altered identity. “You’re not going to the wedding looking like that?”

I assured myself that it would be worse if he considered me beautiful after six hours of expensive, professional help.

When I cried at the wedding, it was the first time in three years that I didn’t have a tissue readily available.

Transportation to the reception was simple. I didn’t have to buckle and unbuckle two children into and out of car seats. I simply slipped into a limousine and when someone popped open the champagne, I was the one in the back seat yelling, “Give me the bottle!”

At the reception, the band played songs I hadn’t heard since college, and I danced with so many men that I almost felt single.

The plane ride home, early the next morning, helped me remember why it had been years since I had had too much to drink.

Two days later, my headache lifted, and it occurred to me that if I could have moments of feeling separate and distinct from my children, then someday they would experience these sentiments about me.

Already I’ve been a wreck about them getting older. When Kate was a newborn, old women appeared from behind newspapers and church pews and said the same words, “It goes so fast.”

They were right.

These days, Kate comes out of the bathroom and I ask, “Did you wipe?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Did you flush?”

“Yes, Mom.”

And I start to cry.

“She doesn’t need me anymore,” I tell Dan later that night.

I want to stop time. Today would be a good day. I have a full refrigerator and I did laundry yesterday. No one has a cold and the neighborhood kids are healthy.

At 10 months, Mark laughs when I walk in the room and cries when I leave. He still prefers to fall asleep while nursing. If nothing else needed doing, I could hold a sleeping baby for days.

Kate thinks spraying Windex on her table to clean off ink makes her an adult. And yet she’ll still do anything for 12 M&Ms; placed in the slots of an old egg carton.

During the wedding rehearsal, I was distracted by the parents of the bride and the groom. They weren’t able to stop time. But I could see, as they held their breath, that each was giving it one last try.

The minister read from his program, “Who giveth this child away in marriage?” He instructed the bride’s parents to respond in unison, then chided them for speaking softly. “Mrs. Applebee needs to be able to hear you in the vestry.” Then he boomed “We do!” for them, and his voice hit the wooden beams. He must not have children.

I imagined my own children getting married. Mark stands with his bride at the head of the aisle. He has a tuft of hair that’s sticking up. I’m only a few feet away. Saliva accumulates in my mouth. I want to moisten the hair, pat it down. But I have only a moment before I have to say, “We do.”

Then I see Kate. She wears the same outfit we used when she played dress-up-bride as a little girl. She’s wrapped an old lace curtain around her body. Christmas ribbons, taped to her hair. As Kate and her husband step into the limousine, I confide in him, “Be patient. She insists on dressing herself.”

I wonder if motherhood ends when your children roll away from the church curb in a rented limousine.