Debs, dicky bows and decisions: the trials of an Irish mammy

It's debs time. Long glamorous dresses, black tie suits, dicky bows and corsages. Excitement, expectation and etiquette.

What goes with what, who’s going with who, who hosts what, who goes to whose, who gives what and on and on it went.

A mite chaotic, but great to observe the sheer exuberant youth of it all.

It started with the tickets bought in advance months ago. Before they’d even done the Leaving Cert. Advance planning was now on the cards.

He’d need a suit, a dicky bow, a shirt and a pair of shoes. A simple enough job. Or so it seemed.

Not like the girls who needed a dress – one for each debs even – and each a dress that no one else would have.

The shoes, the clutch bag, the make-up, the spray tan. The hair. Whether up styled or other styled, choices and more choices. At least we don’t have all that to contend with, I thought.

Then again. The suit came first. Planned ahead with a post-Christmas sales start. Black or black tie? A waistcoat or not? Or, dare I ask if a cummerbund is on the cards. “A what?” says he.

A tie or bow tie and match the dresses or his shoes? Choices and more choices. It all now started to look a tad more like the girls. Not so easy then, after all. And all this before the flowers.

A corsage. No longer attached to the dress but to the wrist, it is now a pearl band with a big flower. Which colour pearl bracelet was the next decision. White or black? “Match her hair,” I say to him. Or should it be the dress? “It’s wrecking my head,” says he. “Get used to it,” I tell him.

The bow tie, as expected, got a bit tricky. There were no cornflower blue bow ties to be had for love nor money. So we ordered online. It looked great, even quirky. It was a perfect match. It had a little orange wrap around the middle, was ready tied and looked the part entirely.

But then a problem. Delivery would be delayed. Too late for the debs. The dad’s black bow tie becomes the back-up but only as a last resort. It’s just not quite the part for our fashionista.

A homemade job via a You Tube video on how-to-make-a-dicky-bow viewed and contemplated. “Are you mad,” says a friend? It’s the Irish Mammy syndrome. Comes down the generations and is hard to shake, apparently. But then I’ve yet to try . . .

Cufflinks or not? The shirt wasn't cufflink-friendly. It was now too late to return it. More sewing. Now it's wrecking my head. Cool, says he. Until he realised he had to learn how to tie that homemade dicky bow. That took a while. Not so cool now.

The Dad’s blue cufflinks were a hit, though. They’ll match the dress, says he. “Market rent then, please,” pipes up the Dad.

I bought him a pair of black shoes. I thought they were sharp, but he didn’t. His Dad claimed them, happily. “I like them,” says he. “Now you know why I don’t,” his son mutters.

He finds a pair he likes, proudly proclaiming they were good value. Small wonder then, they look like they belonged to a Mafia mobster.

So with the Mafia shoes, the home-made dicky bow, the jacket adjusted and a fresh hair cut he was sorted.

Then finally. The Debs night arrives and the dress reveal with it. Hope that dicky bow matches.

He tells her she looks lovely. She does. Born a few days apart, they became crèche buddies at the age of seven months and have remained friends since.

The dicky bow thankfully fades into the ether and all is well. Then for the photos, and on to the school to meet the pals. More gorgeous dresses and elegant escorts. Hardly recognisable from their school selves.

The bus should take an hour or more to get to the venue. Plenty of time then for selfies for Facebook. They expect to be home at five in the morning at the earliest. It maybe even be later . . .

“Have a ball,” we tell them. “But don’t wake us up and lock the door when you come in . . .”

“It’s a red dicky bow for the next debs,” he says rather casually.

“You’re on your own then son,” I reply.

“Finally,” sighs my husband . . .