Sunday, April 09, 2006

Flower Girl

Kiddo was recently a Flower girl at the wedding of her Dad’s cousin.

Ever since she grew a full head of hair (she was practically bald the first two years of her life), I had always imagined what it would be like to see Kiddo all made up and in a gown, dressed like a princess. I think all mothers, Drama Queen or not, have this secret little wish.

Kiddo was all a flutter, regaling me with stories about her fitting and the color of her gown when it suddenly hit me. This was a family affair – her Dad’s family, the one which I had voluntarily estranged myself from and was now no longer a part of. It dawned on me that, by default, I was not going to be at this event.

Blacking out during my self-imposed oblivion and barely remembering parts of Kiddo’s babyhood is still something I have not totally forgiven myself for. I swore that I would never let myself become so self-absorbed that I would again miss out on any of her firsts. And yet, without my doing, it seemed that was exactly what was going to happen.

My Dear Sista tried to console me by saying that I could take Kiddo to the salon and take her pictures after she was made up, but that didn’t help. It wasn’t going to be the same. I wanted to be there on her big day when she’d take her first walk down the red carpet. I wanted to be the one to tell her when she’s grown up and didn’t remember, how she looked in her gown and how she cried or sashayed down the aisle. I wanted to be the stage mother taking all the pictures.

I stopped myself in mid-thought and realized that everything I wanted started with the word “I”. Unknowingly, I was again being self-absorbed and doing exactly what I swore not to do. My own misery was overshadowing Kiddo’s own excitement as she animatedly told me about her gown and her shoes, showing me how she would hold the basket of flowers that she was going to carry. In my selfish attempt to deflect the pain of being excluded from this event, I was depriving Kiddo of sharing it with me, in her own way.

Casting aside my own despair, I contented myself with asking Kiddo questions about the other flowergirls and practicing to walk down a pretend aisle with her while throwing flowers.

I had already accepted that I would have to settle for pictures to go with a second hand account of the wedding when I got an invitation. I couldn’t believe it. As if to erase any doubt in my mind that this was simply a gesture of courtesy, the Bride called me and invited me herself. I was deeply touched by her graciousness.

At the wedding, I was the only unofficial photographer hovering at the altar, but I didn’t care. Kiddo hammed it up, playing games, mischievously hiding from the camera, peeking from behind the Ring bearer and then snuggling up to the Bride. I found myself looking to Kiddo’s Dad to see how he was taking this all in. We caught each other’s eye and he laughed, shaking his head, saying about Kiddo’s display, ”Manang mana!”. I smiled in between my tears as pride filled my heart, and a melancholic nostalgia tugged at its corners.

I congratulated the Groom, kissed the Bride, and said, “Thank you” wishing that could convey my gratefulness over being allowed to witness this occasion, so memorable both to her and to me, for entirely different reasons.

As we were going home, I looked at Kiddo, the tired but-very-pleased-with-herself Flower girl. I thought about the many times like this that lay ahead…her first play, her first communion, her prom, even her own wedding and caught myself.

I’m not going to let the future, and all its possibilities, consume me. Not when everyday already brings simple, but incredibly intense moments of happiness.