A wedding day saga ends with words from the heart

One more pass on the overskirt, in case it got wrinkled sitting on my head, and I’m satisfied. I steam my dress. I steam Jesse’s clothes. I count the hours until their wedding tomorrow. Fourteen. I practice what I want to say to the bride and groom in front of all their guests and choke up, as I do every time.

Yes indeed, it has come to this. I had hoped that endless rehearsal would numb me out, but all it’s done is feed my rewrite habit. I’m revising commas at this point to avoid looking at the hurdles I seem unable to clear.

A parent ought to speak up at the wedding, don’t you think? It’s part of the ritual, along with flowers you hope somebody takes home, and music, and the occasional little kid who gets fidgety if the ceremony goes on too long. But flowers and music and kids are vibrant. If I believe the wedding movies I’ve started to watch in the name of research, parents’ comments could profitably be replaced by an over-the-counter sleep aid.

In truth, I don’t know what I can say at this point. Sarah and Jesse recognized the future in each other without any help from their parents. They seem to be in love whether they’re loading the dishwasher or pulling the recycling bin to the curb, in love as a basic attribute, the way she has gray eyes and he is tall. So what’s left for speeches? Be wary of adjustable rate mortgages, floss, use sunscreen particularly now that you’re in California and watch for ticks if you take a hike. Useful, but hardly the stuff of romance, which movie parents tend to reduce to bromides. And while trite may be preferable to embarrassing anecdotes from the bride and groom’s childhood, that’s an awfully low bar.

I look for the elusive sweet spot between treacle and snark, finger-wagging and support. When I finally get close, I can’t get through it tearless.

A Weepy Moment at the Reveal

The happy mother of the bride draws kindness like a magnet. My friends assure me that I am supposed to cry, as though anything less were an indication of a stony heart. They urge me to tuck a tissue into the pocket or sleeve my dress doesn’t have.

I want to do better than that. The mother of the bride, I have come to believe, serves at the pleasure of the bride and groom. I aspire to be calm for Sarah and Jesse’s sake, because they value it — and OK, to avoid being the butt of endless jokes told to as-yet-nonexistent descendants. “So-and-so had to step in to finish reading what Karen wanted to say,” someone will reminisce, “because she could not pull herself together.”

Nope. I must rise above a genetic predisposition on my father’s side to weep at moments of great emotion. I have his thin-skinned gene in all kinds of ways, good and bad, which worries me. It does not yield easily to self-discipline.

I tell myself this is doable, though, because it has to be. I wake up the morning of the wedding and take a little walk. I have a little coffee. I lay out everything I need, check and double-check and check again. And then I take the elevator to the suite where Sarah and her cousin and her best friends have gathered.

I’m floating. I don’t even mind when Sarah disappears with her friends to put on her dress, leaving me alone to wait for the reveal.

Those of you who like to pretend that you’re above raw sentiment might as well stop reading right here.

May I live to be 100 without ever forgetting the look on Sarah’s face as she steps toward me, arms out, for an embrace that makes me cry just to recall it. Cue Judy Collins singing “Who Knows Where the Time Goes,” because you will be able to listen to all the verses before I’m ready to continue.

Yep. This is what they call a flood of tears. I’ve seen the dress a half-dozen times, and yet I am overwhelmed at the sight of my daughter wearing it officially for the first and last time. I can’t quite stop, and Sarah is kind enough to stick with the clinch for as long as it takes, as though Jesse and the photographer weren’t waiting for her.

This can mean only one of two things: Either the cloudburst has used up all my tears or it is a harbinger of very bad things to come.

I Focus on Them

OK. We are assembled, only moments from Sarah’s walk down the aisle, so everybody out. All of you who are chattering inside my head, family, friends, advisers, naysayers, ancestors, thanks for everything, but please shut up now. I have to go it alone from here. I want to go it alone from here. Sarah and Jesse look so happy and poised and vivid, while everyone else seems a little fuzzy. People smile and say sweet things that I will not recall later on — but if the bride or groom adjusts a smile two degrees, I am mesmerized.

That’s good. That’s appropriate, I think, for the mother of the bride. Sarah and Jesse are all I want to see.

Today is my valedictory as the mother of the bride. It will be over very soon, the end of a 15-month gig that segues into a much longer run as, I don’t know, mother of the wife, I guess. Surely I can say what I want my daughter and imminent son-in-law to hear without having to blow my nose and blot around my eyes.

There’s no word-for-word transcript coming here, which is a conscious decision on my part. If I repeat what I said, you’ll feel the need to weigh in on whether I went on too long or not long enough, or you’ll consider scrapping what you’ve composed for your daughter’s wedding, or decide that “Wind Beneath My Wings” is the best choice after all. This is not a competitive sport. You can go online and listen to Frank Sinatra sing “Time After Time,” if you must, but you’re not getting context from me. It’s in everyone’s best interest that I say only this: I triumphed over my tear ducts.

The Celebration and Leftover Hairspray

Your victory might be to weep straight through a toast, or to crack wise, or to do a little dance, or to settle for the all-encompassing “L’chaim” or its cultural equivalent.

As they say at the end of all those ads, your results may vary. Or rather, your results must vary. It’s imperative, because you and your daughter are not me and my daughter.

I told Sarah and Jesse what I wanted to tell them. You write what works best for you. I mean that not as a challenge but to embolden you, as I settle back into the ranks of just folks. Think about the wedding that fits your daughter as well as that dress fit me once I found the right slip.

You might want to hear more about the wedding, too, but honestly, it’s beside the point. People showed up, laughed, got teary, hugged and kissed, ate and drank, stood for photos, just like at every other wedding. Me? The mother of the new wife celebrated to the very last. The next day I went to two dry cleaners and the shoe repair and wondered how I ended up with a big bottle of hair spray I will never use again. I hung Sarah’s bouquet upside down to dry and told her she was welcome to keep the platform shoes now that they are done being something borrowed. She probably saw that coming; I sort of hope so. I like the idea of her going to the movies in wedding feet.

I just finished walking the newlyweds’ dog, because they have a scheduling problem and my summer’s work is as portable as a laptop. I marvel at how quickly daily life becomes daily life again, even as I take note of the occasional sidelong glance between them, which looks to me like a “Wow. Yes. Married.” moment. Aside from that, things are as familiar as toast.

This is the fun part; I know that now. Being the mother of the bride is merely the prologue to the story I really want to hear. Chapter after chapter, unfolding for years to come — the story of my daughter, Sarah, who loves Jesse, who loves her back.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

A wedding day saga ends with words from the heart

It has come to this: 10:30 on a Saturday night and I sit cross-legged on the hotel room floor inside a silken tent, the skirt of Sarah’s dress 4 inches from my face, the delicate overskirt draped over my head.

Recommended articles

Enhance Your Pulse News Experience!

JOIN OUR PULSE COMMUNITY!

A wedding day saga ends with words from the heart

It has come to this: 10:30 on a Saturday night and I sit cross-legged on the hotel room floor inside a silken tent, the skirt of Sarah’s dress 4 inches from my face, the delicate overskirt draped over my head.

Recommended articles

Enhance Your Pulse News Experience!

JOIN OUR PULSE COMMUNITY!

Trending

Avoid these 3 common mistakes when cooking fried rice

How 1 woman became first lady of 2 different countries — she married 2 presidents

I didn't intend to insult you - Minister of Power apologises over his freezer remark

Emefiele gets ₦50 million bail in $4.5 billion fraud case