Mama Lolita.

Yesterday I moonlighted at a wedding as a nanny for a murder of princesses. Linen and bows and tiaras and children's high heels and crinoline and shrieks and drinks with tiny golf club stir sticks were in abundance. The entire ordeal was pretty fantastic I must say. The arrival at the country club (not my usual hang out) and the expensive crowd milling about felt a bit like wedding crashing and I secretly enjoyed the dead stares from the decrepit old gems as eight bedazzled Lolita's trailed behind me in wonder.

I had not got my babysit on in a few years and at one point in the night while we were playing one of many versions of tag (ie: ghost tag, toilet tag, vampire tag, freeze tag, TV tag etc) on the manicured putting green in front of the Club (whoops), I actually caught myself saying the words "I'm OLLLLLLLLLLD" and had to laugh. I'm old? I'm old, apparently. Thankfully Emma, the princess/going to be a knock-out when she's sixteen/flower girl of the night asked me if I was "fifteen yet" at one point and again I had to laugh. I may be old, but at least I look twelve. Awesome. At least the bartender knew well enough to ask me what kind of booze I wanted in my fountain drink. "Something potent, please". To say least, he delivered; about four times before dinner.

The kids, being Wellington Crescent kids, were served ions before the rest of the wedding and so I was eventually left to my own devices at the Nanny table not long after their chicken fingers and french fries were wolfed. I must say that never in my life have I eaten three courses at a wedding ALONE before surrounded by a sea of potions in wine glasses, discarded crafts, crumpled linen napkins, and smeared ketchup. Thanks guys, that was humbling. So were the million "Oh look, the nanny is eating alone" whispers I heard swirling behind me. More laughter crept up as steak and portobello mushroom caps slid down the hatch. All in all, the chaos and the solo dining experience were lovely and I had a wonderful time (save for the one appearance I made on the dance floor to do the dreaded I-am-a-bird-I-flap-my-wings-I-shake-my-butt Chicken Dance with the kids). Thank the good Lord that video cameras at weddings are no longer under the Keeping Up with the Jones' category. What a day.

Pictoral evidence of said evening will be up soon.

Nanny McPhee out, Madge.