Thursday, August 30, 2012

Father and Daughter





 



Big enough to do up Mr Bowerbird's cuff-links, only a few centimetres before she reaches passes me. Out for a special night with daddy, to her cousin's Debutante Ball, I thought she'd enjoy it more than me. We curled her hair for a change and she was very gracious about wearing a summer dress with a top underneath from her wardrobe, we somehow missed the window to go looking for something new, but it really didn't matter.

I was once a debutante, but I am really not into the whole concept, so ... well silly really. Introducing a young lady into society - where was she before then?  A rite of passage, tradition, an excuse for a good night out...I guess that was what drew me in, that and the fear that I may be missing out on something.

The Big Bowerbird stayed up until midnight dancing and eating sticky date pudding, that smile was even bigger when she finally returned home. Those one on one times with a parent on their own are so special , for the kids and their parents. Before I know it she will be out until midnight on her own, that's a hard thought to swallow. Afraid I may be a bit of a helicopter at that stage.









6 comments:

  1. She looks so lovely! What an exciting night for her, first grown up dance.

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    1. thanks Kimbamel, she was just buzzing with joy, so pleased I had the revelation of sending her instead of me.

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  2. Very clever of you. She looks beautiful and so grown up.

    I remember making my deb, it was quite the fuss in a small country town, a giant frock-fest describes it more accurately. ;)

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    1. this went to spam for some reason?! Yes frock fest for sure, mine was a stunning satin affair.

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  3. I think your jack kerouac quote says it all - the things they and we have a head of us making us glad to be alive. best wishes from one mum to another

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    1. Tis true, a good reminder to look forward to all the good things.

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In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
Margaret Atwood

“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbour:
"Winter is dead.”
― A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young