TIME...

You can tell that the summer is coming to a close when the morning air is crisper and the days grow shorter with an earlier dusk. It’s like when great parties are ending or vacations or wonderful movies or your favorite song. It’s like when you take those last three bites of a luscious lemon meringue pie. You want to savor every last morsel. You want to stop time. But time controls everything. It is the director and you are the player. Exactly three weeks to go to the wedding. I get a pang in the pit of my stomach when I think of that. The final weeks of this journey. A matter of time…to get to our destination.

About three years ago, I went to a psychic with Lindsay. My friend, Dorothea, recommended her. It was the winter of 2007 and she lived somewhere in Queens, I think. I do have all the information, including everything she told me, recorded in a journal I used to keep in my bag. However, with all this moving in and out of rooms and storing everything in boxes, I have yet to find that journal. I have reread those pages again and again, so I have mostly all of them memorized. I believe her name was Karen (the psychic). She had a garden apartment amidst a complex of identical garden apartments and I recall we had trouble locating hers and almost gave up. When we finally got there and were inside, I remember her smiling serene face, then the distinct odor of marijuana mingled with the smell of cats. I thought to myself yeah, this is one of those times of my life where I will be spending my money frivolously. Of course Mark had validated that before I left. But it only cost $40 per hour, so I didn’t think it was too high a price to pay for a vacuous experience. She had tarot cards to tell your future; I had used tarot cards before and they turned out to be startling accurate. Anyway, as she gave us information, we shuffled the cards and she would say, “Give me five,” each time. I tentatively would turn over my five cards, hoping they were good ones. There were many things that she told both me and Lindsay that did come true, almost immediately. For example, she knew we were going on a trip and she predicted a delay on the flight, which did happen. A few times she told me I would be okay financially, which was good to hear, because I never seem to have enough money. Then she said that I would be receiving a large sum of money and asked if I had a lawsuit pending. “No,” I told her. “I am expecting a bonus from my company, but definitely no lawsuit.” “Well,” she responded, you are going to get money from some kind of legal transaction, so I just assumed a lawsuit. I definitely see a legal transaction, though.” This certainly perplexed me, but in a good way. It’s always nice to hear that money is coming your way. I still had time to ask more questions towards the end, so I asked about my mother and gave her five more cards. “I see her in a house, with a lovely garden.” “What?” I responded, “There is no house. She lives in an apartment in an assisted living residence.” “I can only tell you what the cards tell me and I definitely see a house.” “Whatever,” I replied, but thought to myself there goes my 40 bucks down the toilet. After we had left, I told Dorothea what she had said and Dorothea told me that she knows of people who use her and what she tells them doesn’t necessarily happen right away; it might happen years later. “Okay, “ I answered, “we shall see.”

That was 2007. A little less than three years ago. This past Friday I just returned from a week away at a continuing professional development conference with my company. They shared big news- we were bought by a large, billion dollar company. The stockholders had a meeting with the attorney. I am a stockholder. He informed us that we were going to get a cash-out on the deal. One very smart thing I did in my life was to buy into my company as they were becoming for-profit. My investment quadrupled. Karen, the psychic, was right- a legal transaction. And just at the right time, when I am coming down to the wire with coming up with the final cash for the wedding. My payment should come four days before the wedding date. What a relief. I thought again about the other thing that Karen had told me about my mom being in a house with a garden. It suddenly occurred to me- my mother was living in a house! My house! And her room overlooks the garden in my backyard. Goosebumps covered my arms.

Time ticks by. Last year we were celebrating the first weddings in my circle of friends, Roselee and Joey’s daughter, then Janet and Rob’s daughter. This year as we journey towards our daughter’s wedding, Roselee and Joey welcomed a granddaughter. Last night, we visited. I held beautiful little pink-skinned Mya in my arms- the first grandchild. It was like heaven on earth. Roselee showed me a book that Janet had given to her about being a grandmother. Inside she had written that we should keep it in our circle of friends and pass it along as we all become grandmothers. I looked at Roselee and Joey’s daughter and son-in-law, Michelle and Mike, now parents, although, they are still kids to me. I used to get so upset with my own parents when they regarded us as “still kids” even when we were parents. Sometimes time stands still when we see our kids. Sometimes we wish it would. Because, in reality, time turns us from kids to parents to grandparents.

Time. A colleague and mentor of mine, Sally, once said, “Narrative is movement through time.” I’ll never forget that time. We were sitting in a conference room in Washington, D.C. around a long shiny dark wood oval table. Sally, one of the most brilliant women I will ever meet, was telling us how to understand the narrative genre of writing. It was as if she had given me the Holy Grail at that moment. Anything I’ve ever read or written suddenly was illuminated from that day on. The art of telling a story is movement through time. It is as if the past, present and future is encapsulated in your life stories.

I began this entry in the morning and it is now past 3pm. The day is flying by and I still have so much to do, like get my gown altered for the wedding. I have a 5pm appointment tonight to do that. Tuesday night is the rehearsal dinner. Soon it will be next Sunday and we’ll only have two more weeks, then one. I only hope I have the time to get everything done, but only time will tell.

August 5, 2010

It is a sticky, cloudy and drizzly morning. The date is August 5, 2010. One month from today our journey will end and the wedding we’ve been planning and anticipating will take place. I sincerely hope that the weather on that day is nothing like today.

Now the final countdown begins; however, last month, July 2010, was a whirlwind of life changing events that threw my emotions in all directions. That’s a lot to say, considering the year I’ve had. The month of July was moving month, moving Lindsay out of my house and into her house; moving my mother out of her room at the assisted living residence and into a room in my home. It was a month of breaking down walls, putting up walls, building closets, clearing clutter, painting, shopping, packing and planning. Everything had to be ready for my mother’s move on the last day of July. And even though Lindsay had not completely taken all her belongings out yet, on Friday night, July 30, she said goodbye to her room, her sister, her puppy, her dad, and then to me. It was to be her first night with Scott in their new home, finally ready enough to live in. I put my arms around her petite 4’10” body for a bittersweet hug and quietly sighed, “Have a nice life.” She laughed, “Oh Mom, I’m gonna be five minutes away.” “I know,” I answered, solemnly. In that moment I wanted to go in reverse; to go back twenty years, pick her up with young arms, carry her back to her room and read her a bedtime story before tucking her in for the night. She would laugh at me if I told her that was what I was feeling; she would never understand until one day, if and when she has a daughter who leaves to begin her own life. Moving in, moving out, moving out, moving in, moving emotions, moving on….

I didn’t have the luxury of feeling all weepy and sentimental for long, because the very next day I had to get to my mom’s place to move her. There were still more boxes to pack there, as well, and the anticipation of hoping to fit all of my mother’s furniture into my spare room. I arrived at 8 am and my mom, aunt and I went down for my mom’s last breakfast at the Bristal. Everyone was so sad about my mom leaving. There were cards and gifts and hugs and tears. Through all this, I couldn’t help thinking what the wizard said to the tin man in the Wizard of Oz- first that a heart will never be practical until it is made unbreakable, then, that a heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others. That said it all. My mother was leaving Oz that day and finally coming home. Later on, she told me she couldn’t help thinking that living there was a journey she had to take and that she learned so much about herself from that experience. I marvel at my mom- how positive she always is; even during the most frenetic times, she could just stop and be reflective.

My brother came over to help us, thanks to Bonni, my sister-in-law’s not so subtle hint- the movers are getting to your mom’s at 9am, Martin. “Do you think I should go over to help?” was his response. Now, that’s a really good idea, I’m glad you thought of that! (Bonni’s reply). We had three wonderful moving men who had to work around my brother and I packing up last minute items and my mother looking a little overwhelmed and worried and wanting so much to help. They even added an unplanned extra stop- dropping off my father’s desk- the iconic symbol of the memory of my father-at my brother’s house before taking the rest of everything left of my mother’s life to my house.

I considered the probability of my mom thinking to herself how her life had become minimized to three men, her daughter and son carrying everything she owned onto one truck. I thought about her parting with my father’s desk, the one thing she had left of him, now becoming part of my brother and who he is. This is what we do in life- we maximize- we minimize, we grow- we shrink, we get- we give it away. We grow such deep attachments to the possessions accumulated in the lives we share; it makes it difficult to part with some of them.

Finally, with Kimberly back at my house orchestrating how everything should be placed, by 1pm, everything was done. And everything fit. It was an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders. And my mother was happy; she said she felt like she was home. I must say her room is the prettiest one in the house. And I think Sonny, our puppy, is going to be her best friend. He follows her around, constantly, wagging his little stub of a cropped tail. My house is beginning to get more in order; my dining room table is back in the right place; there’s less junk piled around in boxes. The amount of garbage that accumulated through this process required bulk pickup. Mark needed a dolly to bring some of the stuff out last night. But this morning, everything was gone, including that humongous fish tank. Some things are easy to part with.

My nephew, Max, home from sleepaway camp, came to stay this past week to keep my mother company while I went away on a two-day business trip on a very, very small plane. Lindsay came over on Tuesday with one of her baking books and the three of them (Max, Lindsay and my mom) had a baking party. Lindsay loves to bake and always dreamed of the day that she would bake things with her grandmother. When I returned home that night, they couldn’t wait to get me to taste the most delicious chocolate cinnamon cake with banana sauce.

The last month wedding details are being done. Yesterday Lindsay, my mom and I went to the Judaica store to order the ketubah- Jewish wedding contract. The saleslady at the store commented on our three generations of women. While we were at the store, I noticed a little onesie for a baby that said “Forget the Moyol, It’s a Goyol”. I pointed it out to Lindsay and my mom and said if my friend, Roselee’s daughter, Michelle has a girl, I’m getting that for her. When we returned home, we found that the box of yarmulkes were delivered to my house, too. Last night, Lindsay came over to do the seating arrangements. That was a tedious, argument-provoking endeavor. Tonight, we have the second fitting of Lindsay’s dress. Meanwhile, while we are planning, life is happening, all around us. My company was sold. Now I don’t know what will happen to my job. Oh well.

It is August 5, 2010 and while we wait for one more month to pass, the waiting is over for our dear friends, Roselee and Joey because on this day, their first grandchild, Mya Jade, a goyol, is born. Life is happening all around us. Mazel Tov.

I’m Not Losing a Daughter, I’m Gaining My Mother….

This summer, the heat is as oppressive as this winter’s weather was interminable. Friday, Kim went out for a run, after her dad told her she’s nuts and came back a minute and a half later, shaking her head, saying, “Dad was right.” There have been at least two confirmed tornados in the New York area. Lindsay and Scott’s tenant, Katrina, comes from Kansas and never saw a tornado; little did she know that she would get the opportunity to see one when she moved here. I’m not complaining, though, because we’ve had more sunny days than I can recall of any summers past. I love the sunshine and the extended daylight. It pervades my soul.

Lindsay counts down the days to the wedding, while I count down the days to my favorite season. It’s difficult to really enjoy this summer, though, because while the number of days diminishes, the things to do increases. Sometimes I feel like the more I do, the further I get from the finish line. Some people make a “to-do” list and check it off; however, that would make me more nervous right now. I don’t really need it because I have Mark yelling at me every day, saying- “Do you know how much we have to do?!!” With 39 days to go, it seems like we have 3900 things to do. And there is a fish tank in my house that is humongous. It is in Lindsay’s room; inside of it are two engagement gifts- her vacuum and toaster oven, still in their boxes. Saturday, I was so frustrated with not making a dent in this never-ending work, I thought of sitting inside that fish tank and just sticking my thumb in my mouth, a sign of “I give up.”

“Why is there a fish tank in her room?” I asked Mark.

“Oh that thing, I had to help lug that thing up to her room. It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t remember. Was I on a business trip?”

“No. I think you were here.”

“I must be losing my mind, then.”

“Probably.”

So, “crazy mother” emerged sometime on Saturday. You know­– “crazy mother” is when you’ve had it and you call your children, wherever they are and start screaming at them. Vaguely I remembered Lindsay and Scott wanting a huge fish tank filled with tropical fish in all varieties. I think Lemon Leaf, the place where we had their engagement party inspired them because Scott loves to hang out by the huge fish tank at the entrance and watch the fish. I called Lindsay- she was at her friend’s bridal shower.

“What are you doing with that fish tank?” I asked her, impatiently.

“We’re selling it in the garage sale.”

“Are you kidding me? There is a fish tank sitting in my house, because you are going to sell it in a garage sale? That thing is a monster- who’s going to buy it?” (I have had garage sales- whenever I do, people drive up and ask me for things I don’t have to sell them. And then, they only want to pay 50 cents for anything anyway. For your information, nobody ever asked for a fish tank.)

“Mom, I am at a shower, can we talk about this later?”

“Your grandmother is moving here in less than a week. I need to make room for her and you still have all this stuff up in your room. When are you moving into your house? I can’t believe this is taking so long!”

“Mom, mom. This is not a good time.”

(I’m probably having a nervous breakdown. And she’s telling me this is not a good time.)

“Listen to me. Nanny is moving in next Saturday. I need room. Your stuff is in my way!”

“Alright. I’ll do everything this Monday!”

She hangs up. That’s what children do when “crazy mother” comes out- they tell them what they want to hear and then hang up.

I am supposed to feel better, but I don’t. There is just too much to do. Sunday morning Mark was waiting for three men, who were my three heroes for that day. One was Lenny, who took our enormous 57-inch rear-projection TV, which takes up more space than the fish tank. Another was our friend, Joey, who took our enormous computer desk and bookcase, which was in my mother’s bedroom to be. The third was Paul, our contractor, who finished up the wall. I wondered if any of them wanted a fish tank. No luck, though.

I packed up the room that will be my mother’s bedroom and then headed to my mother’s current bedroom to pack that up. Kim came to help. We spent most of the day, inside, going through my mother’s papers, bills and whatever she had left from 55 years of marriage. I thought of everything she used to have in the house I grew up in on Avenue K, now most of it given away and the rest condensed into one room. Scott and Lindsay are accumulating all their family treasures and my mother is trying to hold on to whatever treasures she still has room for. I see the sunshine, outside, and think to myself this is something to be doing on a rainy day.

Lindsay wants some of my mother’s precious items, for sentimental reasons- to preserve her childhood memories, to keep her grandmother close always. She already reserved a space for my mother’s tea set in her dining room china cabinet. Almost every object I took to pack had a story attached to it that mom shared. But the best story was about the two burgundy-colored antique plates with illustrations of women that reminded me of a Jane Austin novel. My mom always had them hanging on the wall of anywhere she lived. She told us the story attached to the plates- one that I had never heard before-

These plates are very special to me. I’ll tell you how I got them. I was a very young girl, in my early twenties. I worked for Michael’s and Company, a furniture company; it was on Flatbush Avenue and Dean Street, I remember. I used to walk to the bus every day after work and I would pass this gift shop that I would stop and go into all the time. I saw these plates and fell in love with them; there was just something about them- aren’t they beautiful? I wanted them but I wasn’t married or even engaged. So, I thought why would I buy them? But I still went into that store, almost every day, to admire those plates. I must have been in that store looking at those plates at least 20 times. The lady who owned the store, used to look at me and smile. Finally, she said to me, “Why don’t you buy those plates, you love them so much?” I told her, “I’m not married and I live at home with my mother. What would I do with them?” The lady answered, “Give them to your mother and have her hold them for you until you get married.” So, I bought them. They were about $10 each, I think. And I brought them home and my mother put them in her china closet. When I was getting married, my mother took them out of the china closet to give them to me. I said to her, “Mom, they’re yours. I gave them to you.” “No,” she answered, “You love these plates, that’s why you bought them. I want you to take them and put them in your home.” I felt bad, but I loved those plates so much. There’s just something about them, right? I would like Lindsay to have them. Do you think she’ll like them?

In the midst of all this tumult, planning a wedding, moving my daughter out, moving my mother in, this was such a bittersweet moment- the venerable woman talking about a day when she was in her twenties as if it happened last week. Do I think she’ll like them? My daughter, who constantly goes into the gift shop that just opened about a mile away from us, and also admired a plate The Recipe for a Happy Marriage that she just had to have. She still stops in that gift store, frequently, admiring all the decorative pieces that make a house a home. Like grandmother, like granddaughter. Yes, mom, I know she’ll love these plates and all they mean to you.

I looked out the window and noticed that it had been pouring outside. I wondered if I somehow was responsible because of my thoughts that this was an activity more suitable for a rainy day. We felt relieved that we condensed all her papers into one neat pile that we left in a basket on my father’s desk. I could just picture my dad sitting there, as he used to, looking up at me to show me his approval for what we’re doing.

We left with a couple of the boxes and headed home, with a stop-off at the soon to be newlywed’s house. I gave Lindsay the tea set and she immediately washed it and found a place to put it in her china cabinet. It looked like it belonged there. I also gave her my father’s hammer, which she took gleefully, along with a Lenox vase and some of the decorative plates my mom wanted her to have. When I handed her the “Jane Austin ladies” plates, I tried retelling my mom’s story, then finally gave up and said, “Nanny will tell you. But I think you should keep them- they’re part of who your Nanny is.”

All these things we accumulate, our treasure trove of memories and comfort that we take with us as we try to grasp the past and hold it close to our hearts. I consider us lucky to see my mom’s trinkets being handed down to Lindsay to keep that link from generation to generation.

I also consider myself lucky to have my mom coming to live with us just at the threshold of our first daughter beginning her married life. The timing is right.

Trials and Tribulations

Trial (def.): a test of performance; synonyms- test, tryout, experiment, pilot,

Tribulation (def.): a cause of great trouble or suffering; synonyms- trouble, difficulty, problem, worry, anxiety, burden, ordeal

There’s a hole in my living room wall. The wall used to house my 57-inch rear projection TV, so you can just imagine how large a hole it is. The wall used to be the back of the closet for our spare room. You can walk into that room, literally, through the opening in the wall; there’s no need to use the door. There are also two holes in my $900 rug in the living room, one the size of a quarter and the other the size of two quarters. The hole in the wall was intentional; the latter two carpet holes were thanks to my chewing-stage puppy, Sonny. It’s amazing how you can still love a dog when he exasperates you to no end. Mark said to me today as we left the house, “Where do you think the fibers of the carpet are- in his stomach I guess, right?” “Yep,” I answered, “along with all the bugs and leaves he’s been eating amongst other inedible items.” It’s a good thing I pulled the 2-inch block of sheetrock out of his mouth the other day. It must be at least four times a day that I’m sticking my fingers down Sonny’s mouth to retrieve something that’s not supposed to be in there. The inside of his stomach must resemble Moby Dick’s, I’m afraid.

The intentional hole, the one in the wall, is a minor tribulation. It is due to the fact that my mother is moving into the spare room. She has been residing in an assisted living facility for the last seven years. Assisted living facilities are quite expensive, especially on a fixed income. We have prolonged this situation for as long as possible; however, my mother’s bank account and the current state of the economy, which has negatively affected the growth of her stocks, have speeded up the inevitable. Don’t misunderstand me; I am thrilled that my mother is moving in with us. She’s my best friend. Lindsay and Kim are happy about it, as well. Mark is doing all he can to get the house ready for her, e.g., the hole. However, there are some who don’t share our feelings. For example, in seven years, my mom has made friends at the assisted living facility. Mrs. Horseradish (no that’s not her real name- she just happens to be the owner of a famous company that sells horseradish) is really upset that my mom is moving. But because my mom doesn’t own a horseradish company to help fund her senior years, she needs to move out. The people who work there are also very sad about my mom moving; they already made plans to visit her. My mother is very popular. Then there’s my aunt, my mother’s sister-in-law, whom she shares a suite with- she’s losing her roommate; needless to say, she is quite upset, too. The more intense tribulations, though, lie with my older sister, who is so upset that our mother is moving further out on Long Island, she won’t even speak to me.

Then there was the tribulation, which occurred last night. Mark went to Lowe’s to get the materials (sheet rock and two by fours) to replace the wall in the living room and threw his back out. Ugh. And of course I feel guilty about this because while Mark was hauling and loading and unloading these materials from the store to the car to the house for my mother, I was with the bride for our makeup trial. Yes, I was sitting on a cushioned stool at the MAC counter in Macy’s, while Briana was putting on my makeup so I can get a preview of how I will look on the day of the wedding. Yes. My husband was lugging four panels of sheetrock and several two by fours to get the room ready for my mom while I was getting false eyelashes put on. When I came home, I walked into the bedroom to show him my beautifully made-up face and he commented, with a weary tone in his voice,

“I like it a lot.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “My eye shadow is too dark, right?”

“No. I just threw my back out. I’m in agony.”

Uh oh, I thought to myself. “I’m so sorry. Did you take anything?”

“No, because you didn’t buy any Advil. There was nothing to take.”

I am going to hell, I thought to myself.

Not everything goes smoothly. I should have known this. Life is full of trials and tribulations. It’s what gives us things to talk about, to scream about, to laugh about, to cry about, to be elated over or sick over and to write in a blog. The makeup trial went well. I was happy with it even though Briana used the euphemism “mature eyelids” to explain to Lindsay why she can’t put a certain color on my eyes. “Mature eyelids?” I repeated. “Does that mean I have wrinkled eyelids?” I asked. “Yeah,” she laughed, “they teach you in training all these things to say to make it sound nicer.” “What would you call my droopy boobs- ‘mature breasts?’ I questioned, rhetorically. Suddenly the word mature is an expletive to me. But I got over it, until, in the parking lot, as I went to get into the car, I stepped into a big wad of gum. I hate that. Naturally, I cursed the inconsiderate bastard who threw it there. Then I wondered about karma- maybe the inconsiderate bastard was an innocent child? At that moment, Lindsay got a message from my nephew’s fiancé to call her. That’s a little odd, because Lindsay, in the five years she knows this girl, doesn’t really speak to her at all. So, she calls and the conversation goes like this:

(My nephew’s fiancé’s words are in black, Lindsay’s words are in pink, and my reactions are in blue.)

I know we sent back the response card, but I just got a new job and I really can’t take off, so I can’t come to your wedding. I’m really sorry.

(She’s a personal trainer- I would like to know who is going to want to be personally trained on Labor Day weekend?)

Well that sucks.

I know. But you know we’ll still give you a gift.

What do you mean, isn’t Danny coming to the wedding? He is my first cousin.

Yeah, he 's the cousin. I know he put in for the day but he isn’t sure he’s going to get it. I’ll have him call you.

(What’s the point of sending a response card if you’re not really sure you’re coming?)

Another tribulation. This is Lindsay’s cousin who is three months older than her. Almost every baby picture I have of her, including her first professional photograph, is with him by her side. They went to middle school together and high school. She guesses he doesn’t feel close to her- always throws it in her face how his cousin from California is his favorite. He didn’t come to the engagement party either. Never called to tell her he got engaged, didn’t call her to congratulate her on her engagement; nor when she was in the hospital with pancreatitis.

Lindsay looks at me in disbelief. Then she calls him. She gets his voicemail, leaves a message. He calls back. Tells her he won’t know if he can get off from work until a few days before. She tells him that he should know (because he’s making a wedding, too) that you can’t tell the caterer the count a few days before. She tells him she has friends who are cops who are coming- they got the day off. He doesn’t even say he’s sorry. She is very upset. The tone and pitch of her voice says it all. At one point, she’s yelling at him and doesn’t hear him. “I feel like I’m talking to dead air. Are you there? Danny?” Finally, he responds, “I don’t know what to say.” Now, this is a historical moment in the life of my nephew, who started talking before a year old, telling elaborate stories. He is the king of hyperbole and tall tales. And now he’s speechless. Amazing. The most important day of her life and her first cousin, who doesn’t seem to care at all about her, cares even less to be there to share her joy. Amazing.

“You know what, Dan. Don’t worry. I’ll just put you down as a no. Have a nice wedding!” She hangs up. Her trial makeup for the wedding is in jeopardy. She starts to cry. The false eyelashes are getting soaked with her tears. Tribulation tears. Your family let you down tears. I don’t know what to say. We stop off at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Lindsay cries some more. My nephew, Sam, 16, lets her cry on his shoulder. Aunt Bonni consoles her and tells me my eye makeup is too dark. My brother tells me that he likes my makeup, but hates my red hair because it makes me look like our Aunt Lillian, my father’s sister, whom we all couldn’t stand. He tells me all that’s missing is her green hat. We laugh, at my expense. Ha ha.

We drive home. Lindsay calls my mom to tell her about her grandson. My mother is sad. She feels guilty. That’s nothing new. She always thinks everything is her fault, somehow.

A day of trials and tribulations.

I left this morning, happy to go to work to take my mind off some of this drama. When I come home there is no hole in my living room wall, not anymore. Like magic. That’s nice. My mother has a closet. That's nice, too.

I call my mom to tell her about her closet and room. She tells me about a dream she had about my dad. Here is what she said:

We were in the house on Avenue K. Your father looked gorgeous. We were sitting at the dining room table. He said to me, “We raised four children. It wasn’t easy. But we did it. And they’re all good kids. And they’re all successful. We did a good job.”

I’m not sure what this dream means, but thanks, Dad.

Attention to Detail- The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Just recently I was with one of my colleagues from Chicago, Bonnie, and while we were catching up, she asked me about the wedding plans. I discovered that she knew a lot already. Surprised, I asked her, “How do you know this?” She responded, “Well I keep up with the blog.” Then she added, “I want to hear some of the good, the bad and the ugly, by the way. This is a mother-daughter relationship, gosh darnit, and there has to be some bumps along the road and I want to hear about them! You should include them in the blog.” Therefore, Bonnie, (and forgive me if I misquoted you in any way), I will respond to your request in this entry- to a degree. Of course this is at great risk of the mother of the bride greatly pissing the bride off. So I will be trying my best to be as delicate as possible.

The mother-daughter relationship is the most complex- I didn’t make that up- Wynonna Judd did. I found it when I began googling some quotes about mother-daughter relationships. Google, as a noun, is my lifeline, and it has become an essential part of this wedding planning journey. As a verb, Google takes me on the road to all the answers I need to any questions I may have. Sometimes this road gets very long and I lose my way and forget what I was googling in the first place, but I can always go back to my Google search and start over again. (Take a tally of how many times you google something in one day- I’m sure you’d be amazed at the number. Or… try not to google for one day- I’d bet you’d go through some kind withdrawal.) Google has been extremely helpful with many of the details of this wedding journey. Details are also what start some of the battles my daughter and I have. As the number of days to this event grows shorter (49 days to go today, 48, tomorrow), the details are growing longer. And Wynonna- you’re right- my relationship with my daughter grows more complex.

It always begins with one question, then, it becomes five questions, then ten. They’re all detail questions. I don’t know the answers to all these questions. Daughters want to believe that their mothers do have all the answers. Except when they’re teenagers. I used to have a quote on my refrigerator during my kids’ teen years that said “Ask a teenager now, while they still know everything”. When I have a question, I just google it- Google has become my quasi-G-d. The detail questions that my daughter asks me, though, I can’t google; for example-

What do you think should go inside the yarmulkes?

How many yarmulkes should we order- 70, 80, 100??

Should we number the tables or should we name the tables?

How high do you think the bump in my hair should be?

Do you want to greet the guests after the ceremony or mingle with the guests?

That last question- the greeting or mingling one- caused some mother-daughter tension in the car yesterday. Of course the traffic certainly added to my anxiety. I couldn’t quite comprehend the difference between greeting and mingling; therefore, I wasn’t sure how to answer. This caused Lindsay to clench her teeth and suck in her breath, a typical reaction she exhibits when she gets impatient with me and has to ask the same question three times. She wasn’t too happy that I couldn’t decide. I wasn’t sure why I had to decide this at that particular moment while sitting in traffic on the belt parkway. Apparently, the rabbi needed to know, which perplexed me even more. And what if I change my mind right after the ceremony and I decide to greet instead of mingle, maybe because my heels are stuck in the grass, where the ceremony is held, and I’m having a hard time getting them out? I might have to mingle while my heels slowly sink into the lawn. Or will it be considered greeting if I am standing (sinking) in one place? Will this throw everything off? Will the rabbi be angry with me? How will I gracefully get my heels unstuck?

And now, compounding this detail thing, Lindsay has been selected to be on one of those bride shows. Yes, our wedding will be videotaped and shown on TV. The show is about four brides who are competing for a honeymoon. They attend each other’s weddings and rate it for the dress, the venue, the food, the entertainment and the overall experience. The one who gets the highest rating wins a honeymoon. Needless to say, Lindsay is positive she is going to win. Naturally, the venue has to approve of being part of this show, with a camera crew of 8-10, and unfortunately the owner of our venue said “No.” However, Lindsay went and schmoozed him, telling him how she has all these hospital bills now and she really needs a free honeymoon. And she changed his mind. I have to say, I’m quite impressed by her for that. Mark, by the way, is completely against this whole wedding show thing. I am on the fence, because I’m nervous about the attention to detail that will be rated by these other brides who will now be guests at our wedding. It’s pressure enough to consider what your friends and family think of your wedding; who needs four complete strangers evaluating it? And that’s not to mention having a camera crew from a TV show at the wedding, capturing all the details on video, like me trying to get my sinking heels out of the grass. Leave it to my actress daughter to find some way to broadcast this event on national TV.

The days to the wedding gets shorter, the attention to detail gets longer. The tension between mother of the bride and bride gets a teeny bit tighter. So, this is when I need some assistance. This is when aunts come in handy. And Lindsay just happens to have an aunt (also named Bonni) who actually does wedding and bar/bat mitzvah planning and has come to the rescue. She’s taken over the attention to details and ironed out the tension between my bride-daughter and me.

For example, while I happened to be with Bonni the other day, Lindsay happened to call her Aunt for some guidance with her long list of questions.

“Lindsay, take a deep breath, and write all these questions down and email them to me,” said Aunt B. Yeah I would have not gotten past the “Take a deep breath part" without one of my daughter’s teeth-clenching and holding her breath episodes.”

One of the questions was about the programs. Lindsay wants the wedding programs to be fans, so people can cool themselves during the ceremony. However, her sister-in-law, Michele, cautioned her that in the videos, you’ll see all the people fanning- evidently, not a good thing.

“Well, I never was a fan of the fans,” replied Aunt Bonni. And just like that, the fans are nixed. That eliminates one detail, thankfully.

Thus, the rest of the attention to detail is gladly handed over to Aunt Bonni, our quasi-J-Lo, as she calls herself. (Remember- Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner?) We’re getting Bonni an earpiece. Hopefully she’ll also keep the camera crew from the TV show in line, too. Anyone who can keep my three nephews in line can certainly manage a camera crew.

There you have it, Chicago Bonnie- the good, the bad and the ugly. By the way, to “test the waters”, Kim, my other daughter, previewed this blog entry before I posted it and was completely in agreement with Chicago Bonnie and had no qualms about her sister being portrayed in some negative way. (Big surprise- eh?) And to quote Kim, she said, “It’s your blog, you can write whatever you want. She’s not perfect, get over it.”

Forty-nine days to go, 4900+ more details and one more quote from one of my favorite authors-

"The world is full of women blindsided by the unceasing demands of motherhood, still flabbergasted by how a job can be terrific and tortuous."


~ Anna Quindlen