On the Leaving Cert and all that comes with it

The level of preparation and emotional energy that is now integral to the modern Debs has bewildered me

I thought the Leaving Cert was hard work, even as a parent who is more like a cirrus cloud than a low-flying helicopter. I had to maintain just the right balance of interest and concern without getting over-involved. I provided the nutritious meals, the lifts on demand, the thoughtful, spontaneous €10 matchas.

It all passed, as everything does in the end. I then had the Santa Ponsa week where I just entered full denial and relied on the fact that there were far more vigilant parents than me keeping an eye out (there are always the couple who ‘coincidentally’ book their holiday within a 10-minute radius of downtown Ponsa and who can be recruited as surrogates should a trip to the hospital/embassy/jail be required). All was well, except for a hideous flight home surrounded by abusive and drunken families. It’s not the teenagers we should be worrying about….

So I thought that all I had to do next was to survive the couple of hours on results morning where the nervous energy will be able to light the Eiffel Tower and by 10:05am it will all be done, one way or the other.

Naïve little me.

The real ordeal in the midst of all this is a night out, which you know is special because the dress to be worn covers 70 per cent more body surface than the usual socialising outfit.

My memory of my Debs is sketchy, for all the right reasons. I am struggling to remember the dress that I wore. I probably brushed my hair. I recall the ‘prinks’ behind Dan Dooley’s garage.

But the level of preparation, expense, and emotional energy that is now integral to the event has bewildered me.

Each new appointment for nails (hands and feet in separate establishments), lashes (two appointments because so many of the spidery specimens from the first appointment ended up on the pillow), and fancy hair creations had me both baffled and broke.

To be fair, she paid for a lot of it herself, but now needs one of those ‘zero per cent loans’ – the percentage representing the chance of me ever seeing the money again.

Shoes, handbag, jewellery, fake tan, eye masks, feet masks (???), ‘spoolies’ (you don’t need to know), exfoliators, argan oil….

It seemed literally endless.

This all started at least nine months ago. I will ignore the obvious gestation parallels.

At that point, I blithely stated that all of the commercially produced dresses were more or less exact replicas of each other and she should consider a wider choice. These generic dresses are purchased from shops where you need to make an appointment to see their wares. These are not couture ateliers; they are selling off-the-rack dresses likely made by underpaid underage workers, and yet they make out like they should be on Savile Row, and charge accordingly.

I suggested I could make the dress myself. In my younger years, I sewed a lot of my own clothes. I made outfits for Med Balls and weddings, funky suits, quirky dresses. I even upholstered a couch once, though it must be said that was a bit of a disaster.

My suggestion was made in a specific context – I was in the phase of my life where my prognosis had dramatically plummeted, and so it seemed like a very brave and resilient thing to say, with very little chance that I would actually have to follow through.

But we found a pattern online and fabric in Dublin – it seems no one in Cork has any interest in amateur dressmaking anymore.

My ambition suddenly knew no bounds.

“This will be easy,” I said.

Fast forward to the few days before the event where everything was cut out and constructed, but the finer details needed some care.

The dress had approximately eight metres of hem. Twice that actually, because it was lined. There are many events in my life which I thought were interminable, but this time I genuinely thought I was doing some physics experiment about an infinity spiral.

My girl was so beautifully patient and tolerant, as she watched the whole endeavour unravelling, literally, in front of her eyes. She received the dress, unironed and with trailing threads, five minutes before her date arrived.

Whatever the outcome of this gruelling year, I could not be prouder of her ability to tolerate a crazy mother with ridiculous ambitions and not an ounce of sense.