the birding frock

it’s peculiar, the tradition of the bridal shower. i dreaded mine utterly and completely. no, i looked forward to the gifts and the envelopes filled with numbers, i not ashamed to admit that. however, the actual event filled me with a sense of foreboding and terror, of which i have not felt since i was young, and in, what i like to call, my vomiting phase. (i vomited, a lot. no, really - A LOT when i was younger).

it wasn’t the traditional affair, the type of which a poor daughter has no dowry to bestow upon her groom. for shame - no blenders and tea towels for the unfortunate chap. i had the all out, no stops, no boundaries outside the perimeter of mother russia, no saying no type of shower. my mum, she has no idea the heights of her over-the-topness. we’re still trying to measure it.

in any event, six weeks after the event, i realize that for me, the event itself, was not meant for me. it was meant for her, and to know that, is enough for me to say that i enjoyed myself - in that afternoon, i gave her the ability to do the traditional thing, the type of thing i usually wrinkled my nose at, the thing that all mothers, or at least a large contingent of mothers hope to be able to do for their daughters. not throw them a party, not supply them with countless serving trays and salad bowls. but to be able to round up her own friends and celebrate her child, and maybe just a little bit, herself. for that, the nervousness and the anxiety was worth it. in retrospect, i should have understood earlier, what it was for. better late than never, i suppose.

it doesn’t mean i like showers, i don’t. ask any bride who has gone through one, and invariably the answer will be the same - with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders will come a sighed “i’m glad it’s over.” but, for one afternoon, it was more than just a little party. it was an ending and a beginning of certain sorts…