I was born to be a bride. There are family photographs of me
in a bridal gown dating all the way back to age two. Even in
my imagination, every detail was precisely arranged—the
flowers, the veil, the tiara, the sparkly shoes, the smear
of lipstick across my mouth. But in those little-girl
fantasies, there was one small missing detail: the
groom.
Then, senior year of college, the heavens opened
up, angels sang from on high and one tipsy night I found
myself alone with Dave. I'd seen him around school before
(after all, there were only 1,500 students at our tiny
liberal arts college), but something about him
was…different. Specifically, he looked like a god. Over the
summer, he'd grown his glossy, blond hair past his shoulders
and had sprouted an extra six inches in height, taking him
to a towering 6-foot-4. Pair that with his gracefully lean
cross-country runner's body and I'd bagged myself the
offspring of Brad Pitt and a Thomson's gazelle.
During
that first fateful night in his dorm room when we had, ahem,
chastely chatted from opposite ends of the futon, he asked
if I wanted to brush my teeth, to which I replied "Hell,
yes" because, you know, stale cheap beer breath isn't the
most romantic thing in the world. As soon as our pearly
whites were clean and fresh, Dave looked at me and began
slowly leaning in, a gentlemanly question in his eyes,
waiting for my signal that, yes, he could now storm the
citadel on his steed, breaching the gates of my…well, you
know. I'm not one for subtlety, so I grabbed him by the ears
and yanked him into the make-out session to end all make-out
sessions. And that's about all I'm going to say about
that, Dear Readers. I'm collaborating with my
mother on this project, after all.
As it turns
out, that was the last "first" kiss I would ever
share with a man, though I didn't know it at the time. I
certainly hoped so, because it was that magical, the
kiss that erased all others. The defining smooch. The zing
of chemistry between Dave and me was palpable. After growing
up under the wing of a bestselling writer, I finally,
finally understood what my mom's books were really
about—and why they're so addictive to so many readers. Dave
and I spent countless hours talking and cracking each other
up, falling under that magical spell that has launched a
million romance novels.
Exactly three years, seven
months and twenty-two days later, I would kiss this same
dude in a sunlit, fountain-fed atrium full of our family and
friends: our first kiss as husband and wife. But between
that first Pabst Blue Ribbon-fueled make-out session and the
moment we sealed our marriage with a kiss, we had a mountain
to climb. A mountain of friggin' insane wedding planning
that would, no matter how we fought it, be heavily
supervised and directed by a woman who creates over-the-top,
happily-ever-after romance for a living: my
mom.
SUSAN
Of all the dreams I ever dreamed for
my daughter, the biggest one was the dream in which she
finds the one person in the world who will love her for the
rest of her life. Because, after all, love in all its forms
gives life its meaning. I've always believed that. I'd
better believe that. I've made a career out of it,
after all.
But when it comes to real-world matters,
there's a deeper reason for wanting your child to spend the
rest of her days with the love of her life. It's the one
secret you can't tell her. She has to find out for herself.
A lasting love is the deepest of life's joys.
When
Elizabeth was very little, and people asked what she wanted
to be when she grew up, she didn't say a teacher or a
doctor, an artist or a sales clerk or a hot-air balloon
pilot.
She would tell them, "A bride."
My
friends would offer pitying looks. "I'm so sorry. She'll
grow out of it. She'll realize that what she really wants is
to be a rocket scientist or a chef or a
choreographer."
I didn't really need their pity, and I
wasn't bothered by her oft-stated aspiration. As a romance
writer, I never quibbled with her dream. Of course she
wanted to be a bride. She wanted to find the man of her
dreams and live happily ever after.
Is there any
higher calling? Any bigger dream?
And so I let her
fantasy grow and develop, unimpeded by other people's
expectations or even common sense. The vision was
embellished with horse-drawn carriages made of crystal, a
banquet consisting of nothing but French toast, Skittles and
spun sugar, a ball gown so elaborate it wouldn't even fit
through doorways. The bride would be attended by her best
and most beautiful friends, including her Airedale
terrier.
When it came time to plan her actual wedding,
this vision stayed more or less intact. Sure, the
horse-drawn carriage morphed into a white stretch limo,
complete with glittering disco lights in the ceiling, and
the family dog had gone over the rainbow bridge, but
overall, her dream came true—the gown, the beautiful
friends, the hair, the pearls.
But where does that
leave me, the mom?
I'm not quite sure how to say this,
so I'll be blunt. Does anybody actually dream about being
the mother of the bride?
Come on. That's kind
of like getting stuck with Midge—the sidekick—while playing
Barbies. It's also sure to mess with your denial about
exactly how old you are.
Hello? You are now old enough
to actually have a daughter who's getting married. A new
generation has come along, and here you thought you
were the young generation. You didn't even notice the
runner behind you, reaching forward to pass you the
baton.
Deal with it. No, do better than that. Embrace
it. And don't forget to savor the process. After all, that's
what you've been doing all her life, I suspect.
If
you're like me, the mother of an adored and indulged child
who has owned your heart for the past twentysomething years,
you remember every single minute. You remember what her
toddler voice sounded like when she laughed. You remember
the little-girl smell of her, and dresses that were too
expensive but you bought them anyway because you just had to
see her in that adorable smocked pinafore. You remember the
feel of her tiny—usually sticky—hand in yours as you took
her into unfamiliar situations: A swimming pool.
Kindergarten. The IMAX. A petting zoo. Her first piano
recital. The dentist. You remember the victory dance she did
to celebrate accomplishments from winning a race in a swim
meet to learning cursive writing in the third grade. You
remember laughing so hard your sides ached, and holding her
when she cried, willing to trade your soul to keep her from
hurting. You remember how much she loved goodnight kisses,
how much she hated black olives, and how very sure she was
that you would always be the center of her world.
And
then, before you know it, this poised and accomplished young
woman appears—seemingly out of nowhere—with a young man at
her side. And not just any young man. The young man.
Prince Charming. The forever guy.
They have Big News.
They can't wait to tell you. Turns out Prince Charming has
even been conspiring with your husband, arranging the
surprise proposal, the whirlwind romantic weekend, the start
of plans that are about to consume you for the next sixteen
months.
All right, so you're not the center of her
world anymore. You're the Mother of the Bride. Even the
phrase itself makes you sound old. Dowdy.
But here's a
secret: you're in for the time of your
life.
ELIZABETH
EARLY MARCH
"So, my
publisher just called and asked if there are any dates this
summer when I won't be able to go on a book tour," said my
mom.
I have this habit—which I believe is absolutely
adorable and endearing—of calling my mother every time I'm
walking anywhere. The result is that we speak at
least four or five times a day, and she's gotten into the
habit of answering phone calls from me with, "Where are you
walking?" This particular conversation happened one morning
as I hiked the five blocks between my bus stop and
work.
My mom got a weird tone in her voice and
continued. "And…I'm just telling yoo-oooou about my summer
planssss…" (in a singsong voice) "…because I was wondering
if there might be any sort of, you know, event around
that time. You know, like a family event here in Seattle
that I will have to attend because it will be a very big
deal for our family?"
"Er…"
"Your wedding,
Elizabeth."
Right. There was just one problem. One of
the parties involved—namely, Dave—was not exactly down with
the whole wedding thing. Oh, I'm pretty sure he had plenty
of hopes, dreams, expectations, maybe even obsessions about
building a future with me. But, like most guys, he played
his cards close to the vest and he wasn't fond of showing
his hand. Not even to me, the love of his life.
This
was starting to grate on my mother. She held her tongue and
cultivated patience, and I did my best to follow her
example.
But okay, I'll just say it. Listen up,
ladies. When it's time, it's time.
The man of your
dreams gets a grace period, but by definition, a grace
period has an end point. Dave's was quickly
approaching.
After reassuring my mother that, indeed,
she would be the first person to know upon my engagement to
Dave, my Canadian boyfriend whom I met in college, I changed
the subject so that we wouldn't jinx anything. I understood
her concern. Dave and I had recently decided to move to
Chicago for him to attend law school. As usual, I didn't
really have a plan for myself beyond being blond, watching
every riveting moment of The View and waiting for my
dream job to fall into my lap.
Unlike the fictional
gals in my mom's books, I was not a spunky-yet-lovable
virgin trying to save the family ranch in the face of
staggering adversity, all the while raising her dead
sister's children and dallying with some tattooed bad boy
named Rusty or Ryder.
I was a real, actual person.
Maybe a lot like you—just out of school, crazy in love,
trying to make sense out of my life.
So, yeah, I was
also wondering if this new level of commitment—namely,
picking up and moving to the Windy City—would result in an
engagement. (Spoiler: It did.)
Later that evening,
Dave and I walked home hand-in-hand. I was a bit tipsy
because we had joined friends for happy hour and I
gracelessly steered our conversation to the upcoming wedding
of two of our closest friends. HINT, HINT, Dave. When he
acted clueless, I brought up the conversation I'd had with
my mom about her summer plans. "You know," I slurred, "my
mom was asking when we were going to get engaged.ha ha,
isn't that HILARIOUS?"
Dave shot me a sidelong glance
and said, "Don't talk to her about it so much. I want it to
be natural, not something that our families push us into
doing."
See, here's the cute thing about Dave. As the
middle son of three boys, he doesn't have a clue about the
mother-daughter bond. He doesn't understand that my mother
has been party to every single detail of our relationship
since before we even began dating. In fact, she was the one
who logged into my Facebook account senior year of college,
spotted his devastatingly handsome profile picture, and
"poked" him on my behalf.
This is the kind of thing
that lends credence to the old adage, "Mother Knows Best."
Because that poke led to a silly online flirtation, which
led to a silly in-person flirtation, which led to me finding
my soul's puzzle piece in the form of a 6-foot-4 Canadian
runner with a mane of shoulder-length, blond hair. Frickin'
awesome. Cue the make-out session I mentioned earlier. My
mom couldn't write it better in one of her books. And the
Davester had no idea it all started with a click of my mom's
mouse.
So when Dave asked me to avoid talking to my
mom about the prospect of a proposal, I nodded and kept my
mouth shut. The poor guy didn't have a clue. My mother had
been the puppet-master of our relationship since before he
even knew I existed. I just counted us lucky that we
actually did find true love with one another in spite—or
perhaps because—of my mother's meddling.
Here's
a hint about your mom—the older you get, the smarter she
seems.
MARCH 14
"What do you want for your
birthday, honey?"
Another conversation with my mom,
this one on the way home from work nine days before my
twenty-fourth birthday. Please note that there is nothing
special about this day. It's not the Ides of March.
Valentine's Day is long past. St. Paddy's Day, Easter, Arbor
Day, Cinco de Mayo, Talk Like a Pirate Day…none of these
most sacred feasts falls on March 14. It's the most random
of days. The sort of day from which you expect nothing but
the usual ambulatory phone call with your
mother.
"Well, I feel like it's bad luck to say this."
I began, "but all I really want is for Dave to propose to
me. I can't stop thinking about it!"
A string of
promising holidays had come and gone, leaving me deflated. I
had no doubt that he loved me, but he didn't seem to be in a
hurry to take the next obvious step.
I had secretly
begged Santa for a ring, but clearly, he didn't get the
memo. Then I thought maybe New Year's Eve would be The
Moment. Lots of couples got engaged on New Year's Eve,
right? But no, all I got on New Year's was a hoarse voice
from karaoke performances of "Super Freak," and a raunchy
hangover. Then came Valentine's Day, the ultimate date with
destiny. Half the married people I know got engaged on
Valentine's Day. But when February 14 rolled around, Dave
wrote me a beautiful, loving letter and bought me a giant
steak. There was no diamond buried in the meat, though.
Undaunted, I studied the calendar for the Next Big Special
Day. I have a March birthday, so that was a possibility, but
I figured I would know if Dave was thinking about
proposing, and a little voice in my head told me that he
would be waiting until we were settled into our new home in
Chicago the following year.
My mom, clearly, shared my
view.
I could hear her snort on the phone. "He's not
going to propose for your birthday," she said in her most
matter-of-fact, I-know-everything voice. "Trust me. I
would know. Your father is incapable of keeping a secret
from me, and he hasn't said a word about a
proposal."
"But…maybe Dave's just being really
secretive…?"