The Wedding and the Toddler (an older story)

It dawns a bright, sunny, wedding-ish day. Excellent news for my sleeveless dress – don’t have to wear that wrap that falls down when I pick Toddler up. But bad for the seriously temperature-challenged Toddler in his smart shoes and bow tie. If there is one thing that sends him over the edge, it is being too hot.
We get up, my husband and I. Not because we particularly want to, or because it is time, but because Toddler has been standing up in his cot for the past 20 minutes, demanding ‘Breakfast! Get down! Breakfast! Morning tea! Lunch! (you will soon see a theme developing). I hope vaguely that there is no-one in the room next door. It’s amazing how often one is consoled, when parenting a toddler, by scenarios where you know you will never have to see the people concerned ever again. We dress in casual clothes, as it is only sensible to put on our formals at the last minute. The alternative is wearing milk, jam and butter, as well as a slippery wrap. Not the polished appearance I had in mind.
Breakfast in the hotel room is a very civilised affair, unfortunately for us. Not, of course, that we are savages, but that we are working on civilising Toddler; and we are not quite there yet. (So, after sticking his fork into the butter to make patterns, wailing that the eggs keep sliding off his fork, dropping jam on his shirt, pouring water on the toast, dropping sugar (still in its packet) into Dad’s coffee,) and filling his pants so conclusively that the noxious odour fills the small dining room, it is time to leave, not withstanding a small detour while Toddler asks the nice old lady if he can have some of her egg. ‘Oooh I’d like some too’ is not as cute as it sounds.
Getting dressed up is an exercise in juggling various potent objects; we are all in the same room, complete with formal clothes, make-up, lego, nappies, bananas, and Toddler, all in worryingly close proximity to each other. Toddler gets his long shorts, short-sleeved shirt, bow tie, and little shoes on. He looks positively angelic. This is how even the most cherubic-looking child begins the inevitable process we know as: slow melt-down. Finally ready to go, with 30 seconds to spare before our meeting time, we close the door to our room and lift Toddler up to go down the stairs. Toddler protests, inevitably, wanting to go down himself. In the ensuing tussle, the Velcro on his cute little shoes gets caught on my cute little 10-denier stockings. The does not bode well for my stocking future; into my one back-up pair, and we haven’t even got down the stairs.
So, the minibus ride to the ceremony sounds straightforward enough. It is only when we step inside the stiflingly hot, non-air-conditioned bus that the real problems begin. ‘Hot’ announces Toddler. We take off his shoes and socks, revealing already hot and sweaty little feet. ‘Hot hot hot’ wails Toddler. We take off his little shorts. ‘Hot hot hot hot hot’ screeches Toddler. We take off his shirt and bow-tie. Then he starts asking for food: the beginning of the end. It sounds a bit like this: ‘biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit biscuit.’ Now we have a large, bright red, sweaty, obsessive Toddler, dressed only in a disposable nappy, on his way to the wedding. Things are not looking good.
Upon arriving at the location, we attempt to mingle with the other guests and relatives we haven’t yet met, smiling what we hope are calm and welcoming smiles, while hanging on to our near-naked and sweaty Toddler. This is complicated by the fact that he has bare feet, and the concrete is hot. ‘Hurts!’ shrieks Toddler. ‘Sore feet! Lift!’ ‘Say please’ we admonish, somewhat redundantly, as there is nothing for it but to lift him up. Guests look on, half disapprovingly, half amusedly, at the near-naked child, sucking his thumb voraciously, grinning manically at each introduction. Many think he is happy and charming; I know that he, and thus we, are nearly over the edge.
The back row of the church is the place for us. We manage to get Toddler’s shirt back on, but there is little point with the trousers, as it is simply too hot. He is getting really hungry now, so I fish around in my bag for a biscuit. Now we have a totally wired child, dressed in a shirt, bow-tie, and nappy, perched on the seat and dropping crumbs everywhere. We pray that the photographer is otherwise occupied. The entrance completed, the first hymn sung, we think things are under control, until my husband hisses ‘what’s that wet patch on the seat?’ Aghast, we realise that Toddler has somehow managed to pee out the side of his nappy - which looks otherwise intact – onto the red plush seat. My husband volunteers to sneak out and change him. Things are holding together by the thread of a disposable nappy.
So they sneak back, nappy changed, dignity only just intact, under the cover of a rousing hymn with an Alleluia chorus, which Toddler manages to get to grips with on the last chorus, just as the hymn ends. This doesn’t deter him, and he bellows cheerfully ‘Alleluia Alleluia Alleluia!’ into the silence of the church. This is our cue for another quick getaway – my turn this time – and we escape out the side entrance, my hand theatrically yet necessarily over his mouth. This is his cue, upon glimpsing the new-found freedom of grass, tombstones, and daisies, to roar around yelling ‘Running! Running! Running!’ I exchange knowing and sympathetic glances with the other parent-of-hysterical-toddler lurking in the graveyard, and lead Toddler smartly away from the stained-glass windows, from the open church doors, from the quiet and dignified service, and feed him a banana, which he inadvertently gets on my dress. And we all know what banana does to dresses.
Let me tell you though, at that stage I didn’t care if I was wearing a fancy black dress, a squashed banana, or my bathing suit – or perhaps I still had enough shreds (or is it shards?) of dignity to avoid the latter – and I really needed a drink. Strictly non-alcoholic though, because…. I’m pregnant! ha ha ha ha h ha ha ha ha ha! (wild maniacal laughter at the thought of doing all this again with a newborn too.) Well. And some people have eight! Words fail me… all I can think of to say is a sort of infernal repetition of the word ‘biscuit’, for some unfathomable reason.