My only daughter is getting married. It's not going to be one of those big, extravagant, wallet-busting affairs (thank you, sweetie) but there are some things that have to happen whether you get married in the back yard or in St. Paul's Cathedral. Item number one is a dress. Little girls may not all have the same dream but most of them have envisioned how they would look on their wedding day at least once or twice. And it doesn't usually involve jeans and a t-shirt.
Yesterday, was our third shopping trip. The first two outings had been mother-daughter ventures, scoping out viable candidates for future, larger viewing groups. I have to admit, I loved having her all to myself. As I watched her try on that first dress, my mind raced back to the times she had stood in my high heels, rifled through my make-up and pranced around in Belle's yellow gown. It was only right and fair that I had first dibs on seeing her walk that bridal runway for the first time. And when they added that veil . . . It was our moment and I'm glad I didn't have to share it with anyone else.
Having walked away empty-handed the first two times out, I felt confident that we'd have a few more stores to hit before she finally said, "I do" to anything. This is a girl who loves fashion; the search wasn't going to be over until she said it was over. (Sorry, I've been watching a lot of Breaking Bad lately). When she and her fiance recently announced that they were moving their wedding date up a little (like three months from now), that idea went out the window. This was go time. There was no time to order anything. My girl was going to have to go vintage, find a sample off the racks, or scour the E-Bay website for jilted brides' cast-offs if she was going to come down the aisle in something other than her nightgown.
When we sat down yesterday with my daughter's best friend, grandmother, and future mother-in-law in tow, it felt different. This time we were in a small boutique that dealt only in off-the-rack samples and close-outs from other bridal stores. There was a warm, personal feel to this place that the big wedding superstores couldn't touch. And the dresses? Classy, stylish designer gowns without the designer prices. I felt like we had wandered into an episode of I Found the Gown.
And within an hour, she had. After trying on an $1800 number that resembled Princess Kate's and a heavily-embroidered beauty with a ten-foot train that would have been suited to a wedding in St. Peter's, she found it. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it looked like since that might result in a speedy "uninvite" next to my name on the guest list but I can tell you what she looked like in it.
Beyond beautiful.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Mamma Mia!
Like a lot of women, I spent a good deal of time trying to distance myself from my mother. As a child of The Fifties and a woman of The Seventies I wanted very little to do with the stereotypical housewife and mother role presented to me by my mom and her friends. They had no life outside of their homes, they never earned a salary above minimum wage, and their main source of validation was their ability to pop out a new human being every few years. I arrogantly believed I could do so much more. And I wasn't shy in sharing that opinion.
Now that I'm looking back with some kind of clarity, I can see that my disdain for most of my mother's choices (the one to bring me or my terrific sister into this world not being among them) never seemed to take into consideration the limited options she might have had. In my youthful ignorance, all I could see was the fact that she depended on the male in her life for money, transportation, and just about everything else and I wanted no part of that.
I should probably mention here that I look quite a bit like my mom. I'm about the same height (before she shrunk an inch or so) and weight. We have the same wet sand-colored hair and fair complexion. The only physical trait I seemed to miss out on were those gorgeous green eyes. What I would have given for those! Anyway, I mention this because when I was younger, I used to be compared to my mom quite a bit. Friends and relatives would repeatedly tell me how much I reminded them of her. They would go on and on about our similarities thinking I would take it as a great compliment. I did not.
Couldn't they see I wasn't anything like her? Couldn't they see that I was a completely different kind of woman? What was wrong with them?
My mom is now eighty-three. In the last few years she has had a litany of ailments, injuries and medical "procedures". To say that she has faced each with grace and fortitude would be like saying Michael Jordan was a pretty good basketball player. Her latest ordeal yesterday, which left her with a few stitches in her eyelid and an eye that looks like she just went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, was met with her typical Germanic stoicism and resolve. Her anxieties always seem to give way to strength; her fears do not paralyze her. She grabs that cane, puts on her size 5 Keds and faces whatever comes her way with grit and determination. She doesn't complain. She just takes care of business.
So, I think I'm finally ready now. It may have taken me longer than it should have but I'm going to be ready with a response the next time a friend or family member tells me I'm the spitting image of my mom.
"I should only be so lucky," I'll say. And I'll mean every word.
Now that I'm looking back with some kind of clarity, I can see that my disdain for most of my mother's choices (the one to bring me or my terrific sister into this world not being among them) never seemed to take into consideration the limited options she might have had. In my youthful ignorance, all I could see was the fact that she depended on the male in her life for money, transportation, and just about everything else and I wanted no part of that.
I should probably mention here that I look quite a bit like my mom. I'm about the same height (before she shrunk an inch or so) and weight. We have the same wet sand-colored hair and fair complexion. The only physical trait I seemed to miss out on were those gorgeous green eyes. What I would have given for those! Anyway, I mention this because when I was younger, I used to be compared to my mom quite a bit. Friends and relatives would repeatedly tell me how much I reminded them of her. They would go on and on about our similarities thinking I would take it as a great compliment. I did not.
Couldn't they see I wasn't anything like her? Couldn't they see that I was a completely different kind of woman? What was wrong with them?
My mom is now eighty-three. In the last few years she has had a litany of ailments, injuries and medical "procedures". To say that she has faced each with grace and fortitude would be like saying Michael Jordan was a pretty good basketball player. Her latest ordeal yesterday, which left her with a few stitches in her eyelid and an eye that looks like she just went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, was met with her typical Germanic stoicism and resolve. Her anxieties always seem to give way to strength; her fears do not paralyze her. She grabs that cane, puts on her size 5 Keds and faces whatever comes her way with grit and determination. She doesn't complain. She just takes care of business.
So, I think I'm finally ready now. It may have taken me longer than it should have but I'm going to be ready with a response the next time a friend or family member tells me I'm the spitting image of my mom.
"I should only be so lucky," I'll say. And I'll mean every word.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Lost and Found
I think I may have mentioned once or twice (or a hundred times) that I am not the greatest housekeeper in the world. I have no illusions about the dust bunnies that have made their home under my furniture or the spider webs that occasionally turn into magnificent mansions to which the residents regularly invite their friends and relatives. I know I won't be invaded by the Hoarders crew (at least not yet) but I will cop to a certain amount of frantic cleaning any time we host an event that would include anyone blessed with the gift of sight.
My husband, a much neater, more organized soul who has long given up on his vision of an orderly, uncluttered home similar to the one he grew up in, looks forward to any excuse to host a party. "Hey, it's Groundhog Day/Shark Week/J. Edgar Hoover's Birthday", he'll announce when he can't take it any longer, "let's invite the gang over". That's when I go into high gear, scurrying around trying to get the house to resemble something close to the one he would like to live in every day.
During this last mad frenzy I decided to go where I don't usually go; where no one around here goes - under the couch - the last resting place for many lost or forgotten objects. In my defense, we have a family room that doesn't lend itself to moving furniture around so that heavy piece of upholstered refuge has occupied the same spot for a very long time. I might also mention that my husband, in his daily, non-party mode frustration, is often prone to slipping/shoving/kicking unwanted items in, into, or under whatever will hide them the quickest. I recently discovered one of the kid's baby toys on top of a non-visible shelf in our bathroom. Our youngest will be twenty-five in November.
Determined to re-arrange the furniture, I planted my feet and shoved the couch away from its long-standing residence against the wall. On my hands and knees, with a quick time-out for a prayer to bless me with better housekeeping skills and/or a lifetime contract with Merry Maids, I started gathering the once wanted, now forgotten bounty, That's when I realized that this treasure trove deserved a list. The Guinness people might someday be interested.
Under my sofa I found: eleven pens, 1 plastic (real would have been scary) knife, 1 cloth napkin (used to wipe one's hands before throwing it under the couch?), 1 half roll of toilet paper (I don't even want to know), 2 hair clips, 1 sock (so that's where that was hiding), 4 magazines, 3 tennis balls, 4 free weights, 1 slipper (who needs slippers until November), 1 Bears hat (probably thrown in disgust at the end of last season), 1 Happy Birthday balloon on a stick, 1 exercise band, and a half-finished crossword puzzle.
After finishing the puzzle, I put away/trashed all the other items and vacuumed. By the time our guests arrived, we had a new seating arrangement and a carpet free of dust bunnies and other unwanted visitors. Weeks later, I'm happy to say, there is still nothing residing under our couch.
Our bed? Maybe it's time for a slumber party.
My husband, a much neater, more organized soul who has long given up on his vision of an orderly, uncluttered home similar to the one he grew up in, looks forward to any excuse to host a party. "Hey, it's Groundhog Day/Shark Week/J. Edgar Hoover's Birthday", he'll announce when he can't take it any longer, "let's invite the gang over". That's when I go into high gear, scurrying around trying to get the house to resemble something close to the one he would like to live in every day.
During this last mad frenzy I decided to go where I don't usually go; where no one around here goes - under the couch - the last resting place for many lost or forgotten objects. In my defense, we have a family room that doesn't lend itself to moving furniture around so that heavy piece of upholstered refuge has occupied the same spot for a very long time. I might also mention that my husband, in his daily, non-party mode frustration, is often prone to slipping/shoving/kicking unwanted items in, into, or under whatever will hide them the quickest. I recently discovered one of the kid's baby toys on top of a non-visible shelf in our bathroom. Our youngest will be twenty-five in November.
Determined to re-arrange the furniture, I planted my feet and shoved the couch away from its long-standing residence against the wall. On my hands and knees, with a quick time-out for a prayer to bless me with better housekeeping skills and/or a lifetime contract with Merry Maids, I started gathering the once wanted, now forgotten bounty, That's when I realized that this treasure trove deserved a list. The Guinness people might someday be interested.
Under my sofa I found: eleven pens, 1 plastic (real would have been scary) knife, 1 cloth napkin (used to wipe one's hands before throwing it under the couch?), 1 half roll of toilet paper (I don't even want to know), 2 hair clips, 1 sock (so that's where that was hiding), 4 magazines, 3 tennis balls, 4 free weights, 1 slipper (who needs slippers until November), 1 Bears hat (probably thrown in disgust at the end of last season), 1 Happy Birthday balloon on a stick, 1 exercise band, and a half-finished crossword puzzle.
After finishing the puzzle, I put away/trashed all the other items and vacuumed. By the time our guests arrived, we had a new seating arrangement and a carpet free of dust bunnies and other unwanted visitors. Weeks later, I'm happy to say, there is still nothing residing under our couch.
Our bed? Maybe it's time for a slumber party.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Just Another Manic Wednesday
Last week, I was minding my own business, trying to get a little work done, when all hell broke loose. I got one of those phone calls that everyone dreads - the one where someone you love is ill and/or hurt and needs transport to the emergency room. This time it came from my husband, complaining that he felt as if he was about to pass out. His call for help, a most unusual occurrence, was intercepted by our son, who rushed from our mutual place of employment to see what he could do. By the time I was pulled from my meeting, they were already on their way to the hospital, ten minutes from my current location.
When I got there, my son was valiantly trying to provide personal information to the registration personnel. After I filled in the blanks, I looked into the bay where they were treating my husband. He was hyperventilating from the intense pain he was experiencing and I was enlisted to help get his breathing under control. This was not an easy task. I pulled out all my pain management tricks - in through the nose, out through the mouth; visualizing that balcony in Italy drinking Proseco; even that hee-hee-hoo breathing that he tried to get me to do when I was busy trying to get a ten pound child out of my body.
Nothing worked. Nothing except those two little syringes of miracle juice that lovely nurse stuck into his IV.
Once everything calmed down, we were able to rule out all the really bad stuff like a heart attack, stroke, etc. and tried to figure out what exactly had led this very capable, in-control person to pick up the phone and ask for help. After a little discussion, we came to the conclusion that twelve hours at the computer followed by mowing an over-sized lawn with a decrepit lawn mower was not a good combination. Convinced he had been attacked by either back spasms or a pinched nerve, we declined the recommended CAT scan (who needs the expense when no amount of pain killer will make you forget you have a kidney stone), accepted a prescription for muscle relaxants, and headed for the exit.
He's trying hard to avoid a repeat performance. He's alternating sitting and standing while he works. He's taking more frequent breaks from his computer projects and he's careful about any other stress he puts on his back. I think he's going to be fine.
Until he gets that bill.
When I got there, my son was valiantly trying to provide personal information to the registration personnel. After I filled in the blanks, I looked into the bay where they were treating my husband. He was hyperventilating from the intense pain he was experiencing and I was enlisted to help get his breathing under control. This was not an easy task. I pulled out all my pain management tricks - in through the nose, out through the mouth; visualizing that balcony in Italy drinking Proseco; even that hee-hee-hoo breathing that he tried to get me to do when I was busy trying to get a ten pound child out of my body.
Nothing worked. Nothing except those two little syringes of miracle juice that lovely nurse stuck into his IV.
Once everything calmed down, we were able to rule out all the really bad stuff like a heart attack, stroke, etc. and tried to figure out what exactly had led this very capable, in-control person to pick up the phone and ask for help. After a little discussion, we came to the conclusion that twelve hours at the computer followed by mowing an over-sized lawn with a decrepit lawn mower was not a good combination. Convinced he had been attacked by either back spasms or a pinched nerve, we declined the recommended CAT scan (who needs the expense when no amount of pain killer will make you forget you have a kidney stone), accepted a prescription for muscle relaxants, and headed for the exit.
He's trying hard to avoid a repeat performance. He's alternating sitting and standing while he works. He's taking more frequent breaks from his computer projects and he's careful about any other stress he puts on his back. I think he's going to be fine.
Until he gets that bill.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Labor Days
Today I attended a "gender reveal" party, something that didn't exist a couple of decades ago when I had my kids. The mom-to-be, my one and only niece and her husband hosted the event attended by family and friends, eager to learn whether they would be buying dresses or overalls for the highly anticipated winter arrival. An avid baker, my niece decided cupcakes filled with either blue or pink icing would be an appropriate message delivery system. I can't argue. In fact, from now on I want all communication from all sources to come inside chocolatey desserts.
Anyway, at the count of three we all bit into our yummy treats to discover that we were about to welcome a little boy into the family. Those who had correctly predicted the gender gloated; those who had not, pouted and took another bite of their consolation prize. As I watched the future parents being hugged and congratulated, I couldn't help thinking about my own children's entry into the world - one's gender a surprise until the last; one's known a couple of weeks before.
Our daughter was born in January, almost exactly when this new little guy is expected. It was one of the coldest, snowiest Januarys on record and all I was worried about was whether I would end up making it to the hospital or end up on the ten o'clock news having delivered my first child in the back of our car in the middle of a blizzard. (Note to niece: do not pick a hospital thirty minutes from your house!) When she safely popped out via C-section, I was so thrilled that everyone was okay (and not frozen in the middle of a snowbank), I barely had a chance to register my delight at having a little girl. I had secretly hoped for a daughter and now I had one.
The next time around, we had an ultrasound shortly before our son's birth to assess his size. When the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, we hemmed and hawed a bit, wondering if we would be short-changing ourselves from the big delivery room surprise. But curiosity won out and we left the office knowing we would be welcoming a son (although it still took us five days to name him after his birth). When he finally made his appearance, I soon found out that he was everything I never knew I always wanted.
In the end, the way we learned our children's gender didn't matter. In the delivery room or in your doctor's office, learning the sex of your baby is a monumental moment. Once "it" becomes he or she, something changes. "It" becomes your son or your daughter and everything becomes very, very real.
And very, very wonderful.
Anyway, at the count of three we all bit into our yummy treats to discover that we were about to welcome a little boy into the family. Those who had correctly predicted the gender gloated; those who had not, pouted and took another bite of their consolation prize. As I watched the future parents being hugged and congratulated, I couldn't help thinking about my own children's entry into the world - one's gender a surprise until the last; one's known a couple of weeks before.
Our daughter was born in January, almost exactly when this new little guy is expected. It was one of the coldest, snowiest Januarys on record and all I was worried about was whether I would end up making it to the hospital or end up on the ten o'clock news having delivered my first child in the back of our car in the middle of a blizzard. (Note to niece: do not pick a hospital thirty minutes from your house!) When she safely popped out via C-section, I was so thrilled that everyone was okay (and not frozen in the middle of a snowbank), I barely had a chance to register my delight at having a little girl. I had secretly hoped for a daughter and now I had one.
The next time around, we had an ultrasound shortly before our son's birth to assess his size. When the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, we hemmed and hawed a bit, wondering if we would be short-changing ourselves from the big delivery room surprise. But curiosity won out and we left the office knowing we would be welcoming a son (although it still took us five days to name him after his birth). When he finally made his appearance, I soon found out that he was everything I never knew I always wanted.
In the end, the way we learned our children's gender didn't matter. In the delivery room or in your doctor's office, learning the sex of your baby is a monumental moment. Once "it" becomes he or she, something changes. "It" becomes your son or your daughter and everything becomes very, very real.
And very, very wonderful.
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