A bit of Dolly

Our youngest daughter turned 18 today. How did that happen? How did the little girl who couldn’t walk so well and couldn’t talk so well get to be a grown up? Of course she’ll never be a grown up in my head – she’ll always be the unsure little girl hiding behind my leg at the school gate.

We have a party planned for tomorrow night. We’ve hired a hall, arranged food, booked music, invited friends – you name it. A combined party for several birthdays – mine, our middle daughter (who missed out on her 18th during the pandemic), and now our youngest.

I won’t deny it – I’m quietly bricking it.

I’ll be fine once I’m there – greeting people, catching up with old friends, and being the affable host. I’ll put on the friendly act and somehow get through it. The prospect of being at the centre of things is pretty terrifying though.

I’m sure I’ll be fine.

No, really.

Probably.

We’ve requested all manner of cheesy music from the DJ. The play list had “a bit of Dolly” among the cheese. According to a wonderful friend you can’t go wrong with Dolly Parton at a party. I think I probably agree with her.

Anyway.

Time to sleep.