Saying Yes to the Dress

It's five in the morning and the early morning hours have belonged to my mind now since four.

I was twenty-three years old and a little scared Christmas Eve of 1988 when Lena convinced me to take a pregnancy test. 

Later that day sitting in front of a fire in a little duplex in Clinton he unwrapped a baby's first Christmas onesie.

And it was dark with only firelight and Christmas lite and the light in his eyes and excitement overtook fear and we began a journey together, the two of us with baby now made three and each day has been a step toward another step and then another.

Yesterday was a trial run and I think she figured some things out in her mind and now today in just a few hours we go to buy the dress.  That little onesie was her first outfit and I was nervous so Lena bought it for me and made me wrap it and tell him what my body had been screaming for weeks but love will buy this dress.

She was changing yesterday when I sat quietly where all mothers of the brides sit and whispered into the phone how proud he'd be of her. 

She's trying so hard with the money, you'd be proud of her.  She's not even trying on expensive dresses and she's thinking so hard about the price that I want to scream to somebody to bring her the most expensive one here.  And she's beautiful.

And I kept thinking about that little onesie.  And I cried the first dress she put on because that onesie doesn't fit any more and I know that's not rational because where would I be if that onesie had been the only thing that ever fit but sometimes a mother's thoughts and logic are miles apart.

So today she'll try on dresses and her eyes will keep drifting to price tags and I'll want to tell her not to look but I know I can't and shouldn't so I will pray she knows numbers have never and will never define her worth.  Be it sugar numbers or insulin units or tests passed or failed or money spent or saved in the end there's only love  - for she was and is a dream come true with a little first Christmas outfit while she still grew strong inside me and this dress her daddy will proudly walk her down the aisle in.

If you say yes to a dress today I promise not to cry.  But I don't promise to not lie awake at four in the morning just to think about you.

Christmas in July - and rags tied to behinds

I'm sitting at the computer when he comes and plops down on the floor next to me.

Mommy, I have a quest'on

Okay.

I continue to type.

Mommy . . .

I turn and look at him.  He's spinning circles like a sit and spin and I wonder if he could do this on the whole floor.  It's dirty and I could tie a wet towel to his behind and . . .

Mommy

And I realize I haven't heard a word he said.

Sorry, baby, what?

Is Santa Claus real?

What? 

I panic.  I'm not expecting this on a hot July day.  Maybe a hot Mississippi December day - but July?

Is Santa Claus real?

And he's spinning and could care less what my answer will be, so . . .

from where I'm not sure of I pull from inside of myself - the truth.

And I explain earlier to him than I did to my girls about Santa Claus.

And he laughs and spins and I warn him not to tell his friends cause that's what Mommys and Daddys are for and then I think once again

about putting that wet rag on his rear.

When Your Future Catches Up With You

You at home?

It's him.

Yep.

You eat supper yet?

These were the words that came across the cell screen on just this ordinary evening, on just ordinary June 11.

He wants to know if I've eaten.

Nope, her daddy texts back.

You wanta go grab something?  On me.

He wants to know if I want to get a bite to eat. Do I wanta get a bite to eat?

He laughs - maybe I can tell him I've eaten and it'll go away.

 You haven't even if you have, I say.

I don't know.  Do I want to? her daddy texts, trying to give him a hard time.

Ok. I'm about to pick you up.

He's coming to pick me up.

And we just look at each other.  Her daddy smiles, maybe looks a little nervous.  I feel a little something right in the pit. We look at each other with eyes that know no secret.

He leaves and I sit and wait.  I try to imagine the conversation.  Try to imagine a young man's nerves against a father who, well, never plans on giving away his baby girl.  I pray he remembers what he felt like twenty-four years ago, that he shows this new son tonight the love like he will feel for him in all the years to come. 

In the corner of my mind I remember all the laughs back all the years when we played this night in our head.  When I teased him about it, when it was just a joke, a day in the far far away future. When he said he knew all the young men's tricks, that he'd know a young con man, that he'd have his shotgun with him.

 When we really truly had no idea what we'd do.

And now on what was just this ordinary day the future has caught up with us.

What did you say to him?

Just what you think I'd say. 

And he tells me.

Then I told him to love her, to always love her, to love her no matter what. And I told him to never give up. To never ever give up.

Did you tell him you'd be watching?  I half joked.

He didn't answer me.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he tried to focus on the television.  And I wondered . . .

how does a daddy feel when he just gave his little girl away?