It was a wedding morning

I couldn't believe it when he walked away from me. I inhaled deeply on my smoke and tried to calm down. My emotions jumped around like fleas on a rabid animal. It was hot, right here in the Econo Lodge parking lot. I thought of one thing (flowers), then another (where's my flat iron?), mentally making a list (tissues, cell phone, lip gloss)- don't forget (the flowers!). Remember that(sand).

I took another drag and focused on the blue sky, avoiding leaning on my car, covered in country dust.
I should have smoked hours earlier.
A break was a good idea.
But there wasn't time. There still wasn't. Not really. But if I didn't have this right now, I was going to lose it. I just wanted quiet. For three minutes.
Quiet.
And I desperately needed a hug. The sureness and strength of his arms. That would settle my nerves.

God knows my frantic panic prayers of "help me, sweet Jesus" weren't working.

I glanced behind me and he was still gone.

Dropping the butt to the ground, I stubbed it haphazardly with my toe and grabbed my phone, forcefully pecking out an adolescent text to my struggling husband, with my newly nailed finger.

thanks a lot. you're awesome.

Which, on that day, loosely translated to, "Where. The. Hell. Are. You. Going?"

He came back to me, his eyes frazzled and distracted, looking at my arms full of bouquets, a dress, and a box of converse; and he asked, in a calm I wished I felt, "What can I do?"

The unruffled mother/wife I had envisioned I would be this day, delegating tasks with a generous,sunny smile and a dollop of rainbows, while I walked in serenity through the ceremony chairs, praying , had evaporated about two hours before.
It became painfully obvious to me I had watched way too many Jennifer Lopez movies in the past week.
And I was almost as unholy as Satan himself.

A really great wife would have just answered the question. What could he do?

I wish I could tell you I was a really great wife. I really do.

I did the exact opposite.

Worse than the opposite.

I completely lost my shit.
I stood at the bottom of the concrete stairs, in the hotel parking lot, exposed in the sun and the rawness of my frustration, and I unraveled like a ball of worn-out yarn in the hands of an experienced cat.

Obscenities punctuated obscenities which then turned into questions with obscenities, and ended in declarations and more obscenities.
Clearly, "fuck" had become my favorite word.

When I finally stopped and looked up, a grandmother stood on the stairs, eyes full of understanding and a little bit of pity.
Awkward.
I was caught in a moment rarely seen outside the safety of my own home and my husband's forgiveness.

I wish I could tell you I felt really bad about it.
But I didn't. I felt relief.
I kind of wished I had done it sooner.

He still didn't get it.Not quite. I am guessing all my cursing gave him the hint something was a little off, but he still wasn't sure about the particulars.

And so he asked again.

"Babe. What can I do?"

And then I couldn't speak. The words tumbled through my throat and got stuck with tears. My mouth was quiet but my head screamed.

Do? Do!
I don't want you to do anything. I just want you to be.
Be with me.
Stand next to me.
Let's watch her together.
Our daughter is getting married today.
Can we stop doing for ten minutes and savor it?

Do you get it?
Do you understand?
I'm never going to see her like this again.
I'll never get this day, this moment, that smile, her laugh, the teasing, a glass of champagne from a pink bottle, the flitter of all her friends as they come in and out of her room, in various stages of bridesmaid dress.
This is it .
This is it and I have already missed so much.
I've been gone all morning, making decisions; where to put this and what about that? Can we add something here, take away from there?
Arranging and answering and conversing with people I don't know and may not ever see again.
All I want to do is sit and watch. For just a moment.
Sit.
and watch.
Her.

All the while, her hair is being brushed, curled, sprayed.
Her makeup has been swept across her face, eyeliner penciled on, mascara brushed to her lashes.
I've missed it.
Did she laugh the whole time? Did her eyes light up? Did she get a nervous giggle? Did she and her bridesmaid make a toast? Did she have help putting on her garter belt?
Don't you understand?
She doesn't look like my little girl anymore.
She already looks like someone else,
a bride,
an almost wife,
and I missed it.

Do?
I don't want you to do anything. I want you to be.
Be with me.

I thought of my own wedding day and how terrified I was.

My own mom was not there. She never saw me get giddy in nervousness and laugh with my bridesmaids. She doesn't know we ate donuts that morning. She doesn't know one of my maid-of-honors had to hike up her skirt and readjust her undergarments on the front porch during pictures so the photographer went ahead and snapped that too. She doesn't know my favorite Latina applied my make up while joking about boobs and sex and men, while punctuating every joke with a high-pitched laugh and a "right, Shannon? Right?!" She wasn't there when I got out of the car and made my way to hide in the bedroom. She wasn't there when I walked out with my dad, who was trying so hard not to cry himself, and instead said low, "Let's do this" as we stepped out to Etta James. She wasn't there to see my bridesmaids get too drunk to make a coherent speech and swat at bees.
And she wasn't there to soothe my feelings when my new family made hushed, pointed comments about people "already leaving."
My mom missed it all.

The empty spot of my mother remains.

I will always hold it. It doesn't matter that she's with me now. It doesn't count that I am able to call her today and catch up or meet her for coffee and a walk. Precious times, every single one, but it doesn't make her magically appear in all the other parts.
She will be forever missing from those memories.

And I knew I would be missing from not just some of Bre's, but also some of my own, in order to help create others. In being absent, I was giving her my own gift.

A wedding of her dreams. A wedding to remember.
And it was!
It was perfect and beautiful and lovely.

But standing in the hotel parking lot, with the sun beating down on my head, and an armful of bouquets, and a husband torn between staying at my side and going back to his parents, I did not know yet that was going to happen.
I only knew I needed him and I needed to be with her.
Just be.
For a small moment.

Do? I don't want you to do anything. I don't have a list. There's nothing to be fixed.

Take my hand.
Let's walk up the stairs. Let's sit in the room that's exploded in clothes and makeup and champagne.
Let's watch her with her friends. Let's capture the finishing touches.
Let's be.
Jeff grabbed the flowers. He kissed my forehead.
And that's exactly what we did.

XO

Orchids and Calle Lillies

I have mercifully discovered Pinterest can turn the average mama into a florist, a caterer, an entertainer, and a wedding coordinator.
Well, Pinterest, You Tube, Hobby Lobby, and about five million dollars.

I finished my daughter's bridal bouquet yesterday morning at 7am. My bed had become the most comfy of craft centers; tape, ribbon, scissors, pliers, pins, wire, with a side table of coffee and an ipad of Friends. When I put the final pin in place, I held up the bouquet in some kind of fanatical awe. I basically felt like I had managed world peace all on my own.
Or at least avoided the mother-lode of melt-downs.
Until I saw the ONE flower.
Again.
This flower ya'll.
I have battled it for three days.
Three.
No matter where I placed it or how I bent it, it would fit into place, a perfect match with all the other flowers, and two minutes later, it would twist again, just enough to be obviously different.
Just enough to drive me crazy.

In my last post I talked about the pressure of wanting to make everything perfect in this wedding, which is so laughable because how does anyone who is imperfect (and oh the list of imperfections!) create something perfect? Exactly.

Have you ever made a bouquet?
Until now, me either. I am not crafty. I do not have an "eye" for these things. My gift is to rely on my talented friends, which unfortunately, was not an option this time around.
For better or for worse, I was on my own.
So I did what anyone this decade would do and I You Tube'd it.

Each video I watched, showed to gather three flowers at a time, then tape. Three more, then tape. Add another three, and then tape some more. This is what keeps the flowers in place and enables you to add to the bouquet without all the flowers slipping through your fingers and onto the floor. It helps it hold its shape.

My problem flower was somewhere at the beginning. I couldn't take it out unless I wanted to start over.
For the fourth time.

I stared at this flower; eyes narrowed, contemplating how I could rip the bloom out and be done with it. Make like the Queen of Hearts and, "Off with her head!"

Instead, I kept going. I was so close. My adhesive covered fingers ached for the finish.
Maybe if I taped enough, if I added more flowers, if I squeezed it tighter, it would be forced to stay in its place.


My chest is tight and I am fighting back tears,
right this second,
as I type.

I am on the couch, slippered feet crossed on the ottoman, headphones on listening to Coldplay, pillow on my lap, computer on top of pillow, and about 45 minutes ago, I told my family, "I've got to write."
Typically when I write, I hide out in my room, hunkered down for at least an hour with the door closed.
But my in-laws are sleeping in my room; hence the headphones on the couch so I can block out my son, who is watching Dragon BallZ, and my husband who is working from the yoga mat laid out on the floor in front of me, (my daughter called him an oxymoron for doing this and I just about died laughing), and my daughter who is doing her make-up while watching something ridiculous from her ipad.

I knew I had to write. I could feel it in my fingers, the push of words, but honestly ya'll, I had something completely different in mind.

Something about the rehearsal and how I tried not to cry from this joy I have never felt before.
Something about motherhood and how for the first time in a long time, I am standing at a precipice of complete unknowns and my emotions are tumbling around inside me like a dryer full of exploding rainbows.
Something about the dinner I hosted at my home last night for the wedding party and all the family,and it was nerve-wracking and incredibly perfect at the same time.
Something like that.
Nothing about bouquets.

But you know, the heart lets out what wants to be free, what wants to be known.

In a beautiful bouquet of orchids and calle lillies, all perfectly aligned and in place, there is just one.
One that will not conform.
One that will not be adapt.
One that will not be twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something it is not.
It will not look right when it wants to look left.
It will not bend when it wants to stand straight.

It will not look like the others. It will be what it is.
And nothing I do will change it.

And now I am still trying not to cry because my mother-in-law is up and talking to Jeff and I'm still in my headphones,
writingwritingwriting,
and I don't want her to look at me weird and think I am weird, but honestly, I am caring less with each letter that gets punched out.

I should be more like that flower.
We all should.
And it is so fitting that it is my daughter's bouquet, her wedding bouquet. It is so fitting that it is her.

She is in the service. She knows all about conformity and adapting and doing what she is told.

And she does what is required of her. This is her job, her actions.

But her spirit, all the stuff inside of her that beats and moves and loves,
it does not bend when she'd rather stand straight,
it does not look right if she wants to look left,
it is not twisted and turned and molded and plied, into something she is not.

She is as brave as this flower.
Simply by being what she is and refusing all she is not.

I want to be this brave too.

XO

Mother-of-the-bride

In one week my daughter will wake up with a new name.
In six days I will watch her have her make-up done,
slip into her wedding dress,
cover her face with a veil.
I wonder if she will laugh in nervousness? Cry in excitement?
I wonder if she will notice as her hands shake when she takes her dad's arm and begins the procession towards her soon-to-be husband? I wonder if her voice will catch on a ball of tears as she repeats her vows? I wonder if she will laugh instead because she cannot contain her happy.
All of these thoughts, and more, slip in and out of my focus today, as I count centerpieces, check off wedding favors, and scribble a new list of last-minutes.


She looked like Snow White when she was little. All that pale skin and dark hair with big, blue eyes that absorbed the world. It's hard to convince people how shy she was in her early years. Introverted. That's what the teachers called her.
She doesn't say a lot.
She doesn't have very many friends.
Of course, the anxiety started immediately. I worried she would grow up friendless and lonely, wearing an obscene amount of black eyeliner with combat boots to make the statement she didn't need anyone, but would cry in the bathroom stall at school because no one would speak to her. She wouldn't have a boyfriend, go to prom, or have sleepovers with her 4 closest friends. I wouldn't hear them all squeal when talking about the cute boys while demolishing bags of potato chips. Oh, how I worried.
You know, like any mother would.

It was at her 3rd grade parent/ teacher conference when we were asked to speak to her about talking in class.
She was a chatterbox and it was distracting.
Her dad and I nodded our heads in agreement, dutiful parents who are taking the teacher's recommendations seriously, but when we walked out of the class and around the corner, we high-fived each other in triumph.
She's talking! Too much, even! And she has friends!! Parent win! (all the flexing, fist bump emojis here)
And we never brought it up to Bre.

Last week, while I sat on a green rug, in an unfamiliar living room, with eight other people I am still getting to know, a sweet friend, said a prayer for me.

"Lord, don't let all the preparation steal her joy. Let her enjoy this time with her daughter, this time of her wedding."

The simplicity and truth of it was so profound, it knocked the breath right out of me.

Sometimes when people pray, I am fervently trying to focus on what they are saying but actually thinking, "Oh my gosh - are they ever going to stop? This is taking f o r e v e r." (we've ALL thought this. COME ON.)

But not this time. Not this prayer. I wanted to stop time for just a little bit, seconds even, to let it soak all the way in. I wanted to grab her hand, and say,
wait,
slow down,
say it again,
say it ten times.
I can't forget this.

It was truth and need. It was spirit interceding for spirit. It was God seeing me when I hadn't asked him to.

You see, so much had been hard to enjoy. Oh sure, a few glimpses, some smiles and laughs, ... but mostly, moments of being happy she was enjoying the process, not because I was.

I know. It isn't about me. It's not. I am SO THANKFUL she is having every precious second of this process. I pray always it is, and will be, everything she hopes and more.
But there is a place for me too.
As her mom.
As the one who carried her in my body, whispered in her ear, cheered her achievements, listened to her dreams, prayed for her wisdom, and loved her through every second of her life. I have held her heart, her victories, her secrets, her disappointments, her wailing's, and her pain.
I have held it all inside my body as if it were my own, letting it beat with my beat and breathe with my breath.
And now, the next thing, the next beautiful step, just days away.

There hasn't been any time to sit and savor.
The list much too long. Time much too short.
And me, much too inadequate.
All this wedding planning and crafting and doing has left me feeling very small.
This is a job for someone else. Someone who knows how to decorate, and entertain, and be all things girly.
Someone who is not me. Someone who is better.
And this is the time I certainly cannot fail. I cannot. I must do the BEST job for her.
My best is not even good enough.

It must be perfect. It is her wedding.

And so to compensate for all my short-comings I am painfully aware of, I am unable to sit in any one thing for more than a few minutes before my mind begins jumping into the next to-do.

I had unconsciously crossed over from a Mary to a Martha.
And in doing so, I had let every opportunity for joy and excitement, slip into the crevices of lists and worry and an abyss of self-doubt.

Thank God for honest (and to the point) prayers.

I'll tell you the first time I really let myself live as mother-of-the-bride.
Not semi-wedding planner. Not list maker. Not bouquet taper.
Just her mommy.
I was stopped at a red light on a country road and I checked my Facebook.
Her post from minutes before was the first in my feed.

"Ten more days until I marry my best friend!"

I remember how I felt when I married my best friend.
I remember the thrill, the giddy, the shout-it-from-the-rooftops-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-I-am-almost-hitched euphoria.
And I could feel it in my daughter's post. I could picture the giant smile on her face. I could imagine the dreams in her head, all hearts and waterfalls and big blue ocean.
And I began to cry.
Because guess what everyone?
MY DAUGHTER IS GETTING MARRIED!!!

My daughter, the once shy chatterbox who is now a fearless woman with a heart that sees; is going to walk down the aisle and start her own life, with all its twists and turns and road bumps, with her best friend.

I have one week left.
One week left to savor every second. One week left to be needed in this specific way. One week left to be her "Mommy" before she is someone else's "Wife."
I am going to try my hardest to walk this week as Mary, sitting in each precious moment, resting in my role as her mom.
I have one week left.
Let it be all joy.


XO