| This
is my first go around as Mother of the Bride and it’s been fine so far. We’ve
got the gown, got the favors, lined up the photographer, talked to the wedding
coordinator at the church. Yesterday we lucked onto just what we were needing
for reception hall decorations AND we found the perfect, crazy, gorgeous pair
of bridal shoes. Gone are the days when a bride was restricted to white satin
and seed pearls. The thing now, so I hear, is for the bride to express her quirky
side through her shoe selection. Cinderella herself could not top the shoes Bride
chose yesterday. Gorgeous!
The wedding angels are watching over us, because
we keep finding just what we need on sale and readily available. Things are going
exceptionally well, I think, for now. Although we both lapsed into some craziness
yesterday when we found a store with a huge array of really beautiful fake birds.
I don’t know what came over us but we began to feed off each other’s enthusiasm
("Look at this one, and this one and, oh my goodness, isn’t this the cutest fake
bird you ever saw?") and we soon had a cart filled with birds in every shape,
size and color. We began to wander the rest of the store aimlessly in a kind of
daze. The reception hall was in danger of become one huge technicolor aviary when
Father of the Bride happened to call. The sound of his voice was like a tether
to the world of better-than-fake-birds-decorating-sense. "Mike," I asked, "do
you think fake birds would be pretty for the reception hall?"
He laughed.
Not very hard and not for very long, but just enough to wake me from whatever
world of birdie madness I had slipped into. He obviously thought I was joking.
I’ve said ridiculous things before in all seriousness, and then played it off
as a joke and that’s what I did then. When I got off the phone I looked at Bride
over the shopping cart brimming with Love Doves, Bluebirds of Happiness, and Purple
Passion Ptarmigans. She looked into the cart, put her hands to her cheeks and
asked, "What the heck were we thinking?"
It was a close call, but we came
to our senses and abandoned the birds. I am sure there will be other lapses in
judgement, but hopefully we will catch each other before things get out of hand.
It’s just that there are so many details to think of and plan for and provide.
When they call it the "wedding industry" they are absolutely right! It’s big business.
Just thinking about how many other people are involved makes me feel a little
dizzy. Bakers and florists and hair-fixers and make-up daubers and seamstresses
and underwear experts and travel agents and caterers and cantors and organists
and oh my goodness! It is very nearly overwhelming. Though I refuse to give into
the urge to just throw my hands up and call it done. Everything will be fine.
I can tough it out. Father of the Groom is fond of asking, when faced with a big
undertaking, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." And this wedding,
though modest by some standards, feels like an elephant to me.
I was making
appointments the other day when it occurred to me to wonder what does the Mother
of the Groom do? Is she sitting at home in the afternoons, while Bride and I spend
hours debating the merits of shiny tulle versus, er, not shiny tulle, her freshly
pedicured feet up and a good book in her lap, listening to Vivaldi and nibbling
on Bridge Mix? Does she even know what agonies of decision making we are going
through? Would she laugh if she knew? When the wedding is over will she call her
sister-in-law and ask, "What were they thinking? I can’t even imagine! It looked
like they just slapped it all together! It’s not like they didn’t have an entire
year to get ready."
I sigh. I sigh and for what feels like the ten thousandth
time, open the phone book. Some day I will be the MOG instead of the MOB. All
I will have to worry about is my own gown and what depredations of decorating
the MOB and Bride are conspiring for the reception hall. I can only hope that
my sons choose their future wives well and wisely. I can only hope they choose
brides with organized, detail oriented mothers. I can only hope, hope against
hope, that my sons have the good sense to fall in love with girls who are kind
and good and true. And, above and beyond everything else, girls who like a good
"Chicken Polka." Yes. I am still on about that.
© Elizabeth
Bussey Sowdal
"The
Girl Detective's Theory of Everything"
September 24, 2009 Column |
