Going Without

We went to a wedding yesterday.

This involved a certain amount of planning (as weddings do, really). We booked Mormor to babysit, we spent two days collecting enough milk to last F for 24 hours and then saturday morning fretting over what clothes to wear.

Three and a half months in, and we're acclimatised to baby. Quite severely. It's like altitude. Change too quickly and you get breathless and dizzy. For me, it meant feeling a mild but uncomfortable chill as though I'd just taken a warm jumper off on a cold day. V said she felt wound tight, a clockwork motor deprived of the toy it drives.

F was, of course, perfectly happy with the idea. She got to spend time being pampered by Mormor, Aunty M and both her Swedish cousins. As we trekked grimly off to the bus, clutching each other with bereaved expressions of remorse, Aunty M sent a photo of F giving her largest, most Anime half-moon smile. If you're going to leave your baby with someone, it shouldn't get more reassuring than an experienced midwife who lives next to a hospital. But you try telling yourself that.

The wedding was great, in a tiny church from the middle ages on Hisingen. White plaster walls with frescos of saints, and an altar piece with medieval cherubs that looked like winged Barbie dolls. Lots of V's friends from the Opera, beautiful singing during the ceremony, a very cheerful reception at a slightly battered church hall. The walls had photos of the Swedish equivalent of Rotary clubs, displays of wooden beer steins, 1950s-looking hand-crocheted blankets and yellowing notices for the local chess club.

I had a mild heart attack when it turned out the seating would be random. We drew tickets on the way in, I would be nowhere near my wife. There was only one solution. It was light, golden, fizzy and being served from a punch bowl by the door.

Being drunk helps my language skills. In my own perception, at least. Less shy, more willing to offer up a botchy sentence and let other people worry about what I meant. I've previously found that if I don't have my wife to hide behind, I can speak a reasonable amount of crude Swedish. My table neighbours were quite happy not to speak English, I was determined not to let myself, and it all worked out well. Actual conversations were achieved.

I got through most of the rest of the evening in Swedish. It's like magic, discovering you can understand what someone is saying even though it's not your mother tongue. As though you have enchanted ears, although that comes with a sense of distrust, as though they will revert to pumpkins at any minute.

V calmed down pretty quickly, although I swiped her phone so she couldn't call up 'just to check'. We had a really good time, although one I found lightly tainted with a double sense of guilt. One that I was enjoying myself without my daughter around. How dare I! What a poor father! Which is nonsense, of course. The other wasn't guilt, exactly, but a guilty desire that F would be raising hell with Mormor, so bereft of her beloved parents was she.

We went home fairly early, because we were tired and because the lure of a whole night of undisturbed sleep was like a gigantic candle to our moth-like bodies. It didn't happen, naturally.

First, the breast pump genie took one look at nine hour's worth of deposits and took early retirement, breaking almost as soon as switched on. Once V had finished dealing with that particular marathon, both of us took it in turns to wake up every few hours, wondering why our baby was so alarmingly quiet. Because she's several miles away, you silly fools.

The corollary is that F had an entirely splendid time without us, drat her. Ever wise to the value of good PR, she played happily with both cousins, ate heartily and then slept through for seven hours. When we picked her up in the morning, she seemed far more interested in continuing to chat with Mormor than going home with her boring old föräldrar. This all seems wildly healthy and encouraging, if faintly disappointing that she didn't seem to miss us in any way. Ah well, plenty of time for that later.