When my oldest child got engaged fourteen months ago, one of my personal missions was to make sure that the last person I Iooked like was the typical “Mother of the Groom”. I just don’t feel that old. I didn’t want to look Lie I was trying too hard, I didn’t want to be a MILF, I just didn’t want to look like the dowdy mother of the groom. I spent the entire year before the wedding contemplating what I would wear - what would be appropriate, not “mothery” (think of the late Queen Mum.)
With great care I shopped the mid-west, I tried on hundreds of dresses that would say, “Yes, I gave birth to the groom” without saying “and I never got my body back” or “I’ve been too busy mothering to care how I look.” And, I found that dress, a tasteful bronze and champagne gown that allowed my “girls” to defy gravity, and artfully arranged material that covered my middle section. No dowdy jacket for me (and seriously, at my age, the menopausal heater has kicked on. A jacket is a torture device), instead, well draped satin and a silk wrap.
I faithfully appeared in the chair of my personal miracle worker (read, trusted hairdresser) every 5 weeks for color and cutting, ensuring that my long flowing locks remained so in a stylish and age appropriate manner. We discussed hair options, she even agreeing to drive the 90 miles to Chicago the morning of the wedding to do her magic.
I searched every shoe store in Chicago, scanned every footwear web site on the nets, stalked the specialty stores for the perfect pair of unmotherly looking shoes to complete the ensemble. And, I found them! Ann Klein, a not to high pump with jeweled strap that matched my dress exactly. These shoes screamed, “BUY ME” and I did. I even bought them in two sizes, my size and a half size up. . .just in case. Good thing because the bigger shoes felt better, for about 20 minutes before it became apparent that if I wore the perfect shoes, there would be no Mother of the Groom walking down the aisle - someone would have to carry me. Plan B, a concession I was sad about, but smart enough to know the importance, blinged out Steve Madden flats.
On The day of the wedding, I stepped into my dress and silk wrap, put my hair in an updo done by my Personal Miracle Worker, had my make-up professionally applied and donned my sparkly flats. I felt like a million bucks.
Now, a few weeks after the wedding, pictures are coming in and I eagerly and happily add them to my wedding file. My son and daughter-in-law look genuinely happy. My younger son, the Best Man looks proud, my husband handsome. But, in each and every one of those pictures I find myself looking, for all of my stop gap measures, like the Mother of the Groom. But, you know, I’m not bothered by it. I WAS the Mother of the Groom. I have never been so happy or proud of my son as I was that day. I wouldn’t want to look like anyone other than his mother, even if I don’t feel old enough to be that person.
Being a mom is the most fulfilling thing I have ever done and I'll take it thick neck, fat arms and all.
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