Yesterday we went to the christening of my best friend’s daughter. An important christening – myself and Mr MilkChic are her godparents. It started at 10am and we live 45 minutes away, so we figured that if we showered and packed the night before, and got up at 6.30, we’d just make it on time, and maybe even manage to deliver a potato salad to a cooler storage place beforehand.
(If anyone reading this is questioning the need to pack for an event less than an hour away which would only last a few hours, or indeed why you might need just under 3 hours to get ready even without showering… I’m hoping you don’t have kids? Just don’t tell me – I can feel inadequate without your help!)
It was all going well. Small one, who had been rather ill, hadn’t been sick for 24hrs and was in bed on time, with my Dad standing by as contingency babysitter. The Curly one had found her dress and shoes. Mr MilkChic had declared his kilt wearable without alterations, and I spent a glorious hour and a half in the bathroom alone – dying, shaving, moisturising, and generally acting like a woman without kids before a big event. Admittedly I wouldn’t have considered a christening such a big event back then, but I don’t get out much these days.
With the weather so variable, it didn’t seem worth getting small one’s outfit ready the night before and I didn’t want to risk waking her up so Mr Milkchic was briefed to bath her in the morning while I organised clothes.
Military planning is clearly the route to a successful family outing and we moved like a well-oiled machine… I ironed my dress and did my hair while Mr got small one dressed. He even found socks to match her outfit! I did her hair while he got into his kilt. We packed nappies and snacks in record time. Curly was wonderfully self-sufficient, managing to wear a dress AND a smile at the same time… and, a few minutes later than planned, we were standing on the drive, groomed and ready to go. Perfection! Smug? Moi??
Well, almost perfection.
As I bustled small one into the car, she looked confused.
“I can’t, Mummy.”
I tried again in my best Mary Poppins impression, “Of course you can. Just squeeze past Mummy and hop in like a rabbit!”
She looked distressed.
“I can’t, Mummy! I’ve got NO KNICKERS!“, lifting her dress above her head to emphasise the point.
At least Mr MilkChic had the grace to look sheepish. Apparently he’d spent so long chasing her around the house to get the rest of her clothes on that knickers were overlooked.
And it could have been worse. She could have waited until we got to the church…