Saturday, the wedding day of one of my college girls –

– — –

I’m in the bathroom, putting on lip gloss when my college girl says “Will you put my make-up on for me?”  I’m nervous about doing it — this is her wedding day, for crying out loud.  I’m putting the foundation on, blending, blending, blending.  I say, quietly — “Are you nervous?”  She says, quietly — “Yes.”  I keep blending, trying to think of what to say.  But then she looks in my eyes and says “Do you like how big my hair is today?  It’s my first time having hair this big.”

I instantly remember her sitting across from me at the Starlite office, two years ago.  Tears coming down her cheeks as she told me what had happened in her life.  I prayed that day that God would send someone for her, that she would have someone to love her since other people in her life had done such a poor job of it.

And now we’re standing there on her wedding day, me in a bridesmaid dress, blending the make-up onto her face while she stands in front of me, a hopeful look in her eyes breaking through all the nervousness.

“Of course I’m proud of you,” I say, blending, blending, blending.  “Of course I am.”

– — –

We’re at the reception, all of us — lots of my Starlite college girls, everyone back in our small town to see the happy bride.  I’ve taken off my high heels and switched them for flip flops; I’ve attempted — unsuccessfully — to bustle my dress with safety pins in hopes that I won’t ruin it on the dance floor.  It’s the first time I’ve worn a dress with an actual train on it and I’m thinking about how I used to walk around my bedroom as a little girl holding the sheets from my bed behind me so I could pretending that my imaginary dress had a train flowing out behind me.

The music suddenly switches to something slow and I immediately turn to walk towards my seat at the head table, an action ingrained from years of weddings without being asked to dance.  It’s always a little embarrassing to sit by yourself while the slow songs are on; I usually pretend to be very interested in my goblet of water.  It keeps people from feeling sorry for you.

I’m almost back to my seat when he — a groomsman whose name I couldn’t actually remember — comes up to me.  He asks me to dance but, before he’s even fully asked, he’s already pulling me that way.  We dance and I keep telling myself to remember what this feels like; I do that with things that I’m afraid might not happen again for a very long time.  I’m still rehearsing it in my mind when the song ends and I say “Thank you so much” while turning to head back to my seat.

And then, the real miracle of the night –

“Since we had so much fun with that one, don’t you think we should try another song?”

And then we’re dancing again, before I could even say yes.

– — –

We’re on our way home from the reception, my two little girls in the backseat.  They’re excited because the bride sent her wedding dress and bouquet home with me (for safe-keeping during the honeymoon, of course) and they’ve assumed that it means they’ll be playing dress-up within minutes of arriving home (incorrect, my two little fairies).  Suddenly MacKenzie reminds me of the promise I made them before the wedding began — a surprise treat in exchange for good behavior during the wedding.

(Judge me if you want, but I’m not above bribing when it comes to good wedding behavior.)

I decide that I’ll stop at the drugstore near my house to let them pick out a candy bar to have the next day; it’s far too late in the evening to have sugar.  I’m sitting at the stop sign, thinking about how I’ll remember this night when I suddenly turn on the left blinker in an act of irresponsibility.  We’re going to get ice cream, even though it’s late, even though I’m in a bridesmaid dress that has a train to it.

We have the whole place to ourselves and I’m not thinking about how it’s going to end up on their clothes, how they’re going to be bouncing off the walls when bedtime comes around.

I’m thinking about how I’m going to let them be little for as long as I can.