Buffalo Gal

My daughter's voice was so sing song happy, I didn't immediately recognize it on the phone this morning.
Their wedding date is set for Memorial Weekend 2008. The fact that they are getting married is not a surprise, she has been glowing about Michael since she met him.
We'd been planning on celebrating their engagement when they come to visit at Easter for months now.
But the sound of her voice and the reality of a date pushes things to a new place.
It's official, I'm going to be the mother of the bride. Me, who some days doesn't feel old enough to be driving after dark.
I don't find myself craving beige tafetta, wanting to sample fondant flavors for the cake or wondering where I'll get my bag and shoes dyed to match.
All morning my mind has been racing to the places where I have heard her voice sing in that way.
She's a little girl on the big rides for the first time at Six Flags in Dallas.
She's ambushing the other children with Cascarones at Sansone's Easter Egg hunt.
She's riding a horse fast for the first time.
She's just seen The Nutcracker and wants to dance all the parts in the car on the way home.
She thinks the examiner made a mistake bacause she actually passed her driver's test.
She's three years old, knows every letter, number and color in the homemade flash card deck and asks for more.
She's sipping wine with me on a grassy patch by the Allegheny River during parents weekend.
She steals the show in the third grade production of Chicken Little.
She's writing poems for me and leaving them on my pillow when she's worried that I'm sad.
She can't believe he asked her to Homecoming.
Her name is called from the dozens on the stage in their pageant gowns at Glynn Academy.
She runs in the waves with her Smokie...
The feather boas, the tiaras, the My Little Ponies, Care Bears and Rainbow Brights all blur on the too-fast carousel of her youth.
There's pictures and videos to show Michael, but I wish I could play for him the tape in my head. The one that shows completely what a complex and magnificent gift he has in my daughter.
But if he's a fraction of the man she believes he is... he already knows.

Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (0) Share on Facebook		2007-03-05 11:25 AM Mother of the bride My daughter's voice was so sing song happy, I didn't immediately recognize it on the phone this morning. Their wedding date is set for Memorial Weekend 2008. The fact that they are getting married is not a surprise, she has been glowing about Michael since she met him. We'd been planning on celebrating their engagement when they come to visit at Easter for months now. But the sound of her voice and the reality of a date pushes things to a new place. It's official, I'm going to be the mother of the bride. Me, who some days doesn't feel old enough to be driving after dark. I don't find myself craving beige tafetta, wanting to sample fondant flavors for the cake or wondering where I'll get my bag and shoes dyed to match. All morning my mind has been racing to the places where I have heard her voice sing in that way. She's a little girl on the big rides for the first time at Six Flags in Dallas. She's ambushing the other children with Cascarones at Sansone's Easter Egg hunt. She's riding a horse fast for the first time. She's just seen The Nutcracker and wants to dance all the parts in the car on the way home. She thinks the examiner made a mistake bacause she actually passed her driver's test. She's three years old, knows every letter, number and color in the homemade flash card deck and asks for more. She's sipping wine with me on a grassy patch by the Allegheny River during parents weekend. She steals the show in the third grade production of Chicken Little. She's writing poems for me and leaving them on my pillow when she's worried that I'm sad. She can't believe he asked her to Homecoming. Her name is called from the dozens on the stage in their pageant gowns at Glynn Academy. She runs in the waves with her Smokie... The feather boas, the tiaras, the My Little Ponies, Care Bears and Rainbow Brights all blur on the too-fast carousel of her youth. There's pictures and videos to show Michael, but I wish I could play for him the tape in my head. The one that shows completely what a complex and magnificent gift he has in my daughter. But if he's a fraction of the man she believes he is... he already knows. Copyright 2007 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (0) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top