On Saturday I watched my younger daughter get beauty-ed up for a night she's looked forward to forever: prom night. In her long, flowy, white with silver accents dress, silver shoe-boots, upswept hairdo and glitter-dusted eyeshadow, she was a true teen angel. I snapped photos, joked with her handsome young date, and swallowed against the lump in my throat.
Moments like that make me me acutely aware of how lonely it sometimes is to be a single parent. Ron died was Melissa was 13. He's missed her first day of high school, her pride over earning a spot in the school symphony orchestra, her excitement when she got her driver's license - and prom night.
No matter how strained or painful a marriage may be, there is something to be said about having someone there who is equally invested in your children's milestones, someone with whom you can exchange a proud, nostalgic smile, knowing that while you're looking at the tall, beautiful, poised young woman you've raised, in your mind's eye you're seeing a fluff-haired toddler in a fuzzy yellow sleeper, clutching her beloved stuffed Barney toy.
As I snapped photos of Melissa and her date, I imagined Melissa was thinking of her dad, wishing she could hear him tell her how amazing she looked, wishing he was there to give her date the firm, man to man handshake and stern "behave or else" dad eye.
The late comedian George Carlin had a standup routine on the subject of death. He scorned the notion that our dead family and friends are looking down on us "from a better place." Why would they want to waste time watching us if they were enjoying a perfect existence in heaven, he said.
I can easily believe that family and friends would treasure the opportunity to look down at us here on earth. And I could have summed up the reason for Mr. Carlin with two words: prom night.
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