My daughter is eighteen.
From a couple of years before she turned eighteen she was looking forward to that birthday, as it seemed to her she could enter the wicked world of adults – like having a glass of wine on ‘Special Occasions’.
She was born at 11.45 pm, and I, with Mummy like wretchedness, made her wait till exactly that time before I poured her a glass.
It was a real sight to see her take her first sip, more of a gulp, gag and spew it all out. I decided to take pity on her and gave her some orange juice with a very little vodka.
She called and made proud announcements to her friends.
Since then there have been many ‘Occasions’, but not ‘Special’ ones as determined by me. Of those there have been just a couple.
Yesterday she went with her father to another city for a few days. Her father is in a profession that is perceived to be glamorous. She expects there to be parties every evening.
The evening before she left she asked me plaintively if every night there was going to be a ‘Special Occasion’. Her hopes were dashed, but I have told tell her that she may have one drink on the last evening she is there.
Poor Baby! Silly Baby! I miss her.
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