Slipping Through My Fingers

Yes, we women “of a certain age” like to listen to ABBA. We are the reason why Mamma Mia was a hit on Broadway, and why even the woefully miscast Pierce Brosnan version did well at the box office. Yes, I have my copy of the DVD and the CD and I sing along with great gusto, especially after two glasses of wine. (But, really, now — who was the genius that cast Colin Firth as the gay guy? Get real.)

This week has been an exceptionally ABBA-licious kind of week. I took DD#1 to St Augustine for the weekend. I did a law conference while she prowled St George St (aka Credit Card Alley) for bargains. But the real poignant part of the trip was on I-10 while she slept, when ABBA’s Slipping Through My Fingers came on the CD. Umm, yes. I cried. I looked over at this lovely, intelligent young woman DH and I were blessed with, and I couldn’t believe she is now an adult. I wouldn’t trade her for anything, but every once in a while I get this longing to — just once more — see the pudgy little baby she was. I didn’t get enough hugs in. I didn’t read enough stories. I didn’t play in the park enough. I want one more — just one — chance to enjoy it as I should have.

You don’t get do-overs in raising your kids. And I guess, having gotten a really good result, I shouldn’t want to redo it. But I would love to get one more sticky Juicy Juice kiss as I leave for work.

Ok, think like a writer. Use it. Make the reader feel that bittersweet rush of emotions. If I can tap into this, I can make the reader feel for my characters. And if I can’t have Sweet Baby Girl in my lap again, at least I will have that.

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