It is truly coming.
Not the end of days. Not the big one. Not a sharknado. Yesterday we spent two hours with my daughter’s wedding planner. I am officially, and inescapably, the mother of the bride now.
I knew intellectually there was a prodigious difference between being mother of the groom and mother of the bride, but yesterday was the proverbial ton of bricks. I sat, with mental duct tape across my mouth, and saw my sweet daughter lay out a barrel full of ideas and requests, in which the word traditional was only used with the word NOT firmly in front of it.
You’d be surprised how calmly I received news like a giant-screen video game of “Street Fighter” to be played throughout the reception. Will I need to choose my dress color to compliment the color of freshly spilled blood?
Actually, I don’t want to give away all their ideas, but it became clear that a good third of those attending will have no idea what the music, the flower girls outfits or half the decor means, right down to Link and Zelda atop their cake. Did I hear you say, “Who?”
Maybe if you are a mom of teens or older, you are familiar with the world of anime and video games. It really depends on if yours was the house with the dual controllers and the multiple screens, where everyone hung out for marathons of Halo or Warcraft or whatever. Mine was not that house. I had no idea how much I did not know, but I expect to be a minor expert by September.
My eyes kind of crossed trying to figure out how many 36-inch tables we could fit around a dance floor in our backyard along with shabby chic couches. Our yard looked big until you started filling it with food stations, furniture and a DJ. And this activity doesn’t even begin to touch on the complete yard makeover I have planned to make it presentable to my standards and, of course, to the bride’s. I may buy my gardening gloves by the 100-pack. I am a woman on a mission.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer breathing into a paper bag at regular intervals. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.