Should the Mother of the Bride be Blubbering?

My oldest daughter has moved to New York, my youngest to Arizona, and I to Missoula. My father lives faraway in an Alzheimer’s facility—the staff there has accepted that mothering torch from my outstretched hand.

To heap emotion upon emotion, I am preparing to become the Mother of the Bride. Finding the dress to wear, alone, is enough to make any grown, menopausal woman cry. And cry I have. My daughter isn’t walking down that chapel aisle for months, and already all it took was the organist displaying keyboard capability in order to procure an advance deposit for me to know that I am on a collision course with serious maternal trouble.

By the third note of “Here Comes The Bride,” I was turning my back on my baby in order to wipe aside copious tears and squelch slobbering sobs. Danger. And tranquilizers aren’t the answer; once I had to ingest one prior to surgery. I drooled while sitting erect and stared until my eyeballs were as dry as ping-pong balls. Red ones.

I’m not pretty when I cry. Some women weep gracefully; they dab a lovely handkerchief to the outside corner of the eye and don’t even sniffle. My complexion is splotchy, my mouth curls downward, and my lips quiver and turn blue. In fact, my entire face contorts so that I resemble something feral. This happens to me at funerals. I must not let it occur at my dearest darling’s happiest-day-of-her-dreams.

“What is the matter with me?” I asked Kathy, the Mother of the Groom-That-I-Adore who accompanied us on our interview with the musician.


"I’m having trouble myself,” she kindly empathized. It’s true; I did notice her pivot and twist from the organ. She’s marrying off her youngest son, so it’s entirely possible we both might need intervention.

After driving back to Missoula from Seattle, where the big day will dawn and the vows shall be voiced, I still struggled to get a grip. In the car while running errands, Country Western radio songs ambushed and I had to pull over. There are bridal books galore at Barnes and Noble—was there one in the self-help section for blubbering baby-to-bride bearers?

I couldn’t hope to entirely squelch my emotion on the day, but I could at least figure out how to camouflage the horror that is my face and the guttural growl that becomes my voice. I had to think of something for my daughter’s sake, as well as every guest in attendance.

Mr. Manners, Missoula’s own “Prince of the Proper!” He was my last, best hope. I have the pleasure of knowing him personally, which I hesitate to brag about lest I be caught in the act of misrepresenting our friendship when I sneeze and forget to cover my mouth or unconscionably repair my lipstick at the dinner table. I will get him off the hook in advance by pointing out that he has never officially tutored me—I only ask him questions as they apply to my current midlife-crisis.

In between bouts of effusive emotion, I managed a quick phone call.

“What is the protocol for such maternal meltdown—do I pocket Kleenex to camouflage catastrophe?” I queried. Mr. Manners considered the formality of the occasion.

“Always a handkerchief, because Kleenex leaves behind debris. An especially special handkerchief,” He crooned.

How wise! Perhaps, as opposed to sifting through my mother’s linen lovelies, an act that would only serve to plunge me into yet another round of hopelessly unstoppable nostalgic reverie, I could shop! Shopping never fails to be therapeutic.

“I would take medication so as not overdo it or be carried away,” he warned.
I hadn’t clued him in as to my comatose reaction to sinus remedies, let alone anti-anxiety aids. He continued to offer solace, as I remained somewhat skeptical of my ability to hurdle my wedding-day weakness.

“Emotion [to a degree] on that day is expected of the Mother of the Bride. Even the bride subconsciously expects a show.” She’d get one, all right, if I didn’t snap out of it before her father took her arm.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Manner’s impeccable advice would do the trick for someone as hopeless as I, he uttered the words that soothed my agitated soul.
“The moment is to be remembered, and memories are attached to emotions. The handkerchief should be made known to the bride beforehand as something just for the occasion. Then afterward, it will be set aside until she attends her own daughter's wedding—Passing on good wishes through generations of worthy women.”

I immensely like that—something borrowed (perhaps I would, after all, unearth that delicate hankie that my mother had wept into)…and something as old as time: a mother’s unbridled love.