If Wishes Were Horses

Last month we loaded up Leslie and the kids and went back to Nebraska for a long weekend.  While we were there, Pierce fell in love.  We had gone back for my niece's wedding and as everybody knows, the feelings of love and hope and new beginnings spill over onto everybody as they watch two people promise to love and adore each other for all time ―  as they support their loved one's head over the toilet during bouts of vomiting, as they refrain from commenting on bad haircuts, as they gag discreetly during stinky farts, as they monitor out-of-control nose hair and yes, even as they silently eat their own soup while listening to the rhythmic slurping from across the table.  Even four-year old Pierce, who asked his mom to please ask the beautiful flower girl to dance with him, felt the love. 

I think this was Pierce’s first falling-in-love experience and when he did, he fell hard and he fell fast.  One look and it was over for him.  It was a transformation as miraculous and unexpected as watching a fat, slow and awkward caterpillar emerge from a chrysalis as a bright and graceful butterfly.  One minute this boisterous, teasing, monkey-like four-year old was chasing his sisters, the next he was standing quietly, eyes wide with adoration. 

You think he was looking adoringly at the beautiful flower girl?  She was beautiful, but his heart was not hers to take.  Even before he’d met and danced with her he had given it to somebody else.  He had given his heart to somebody he barely knew.  Somebody he’d met for the first time the night before ―  his Great Uncle Dave.  You might wonder what would cause Pierce to make a man he’d only known for a few hours his new best friend.  I’ll tell you.  A combine.   One nanosecond after Uncle Dave opened the door of a gigantic metal building and showed Pierce his big, red combine … and semi … and tractor … he became Pierce’s best buddy.  

And then … Uncle Dave opened another door to another big metal building and there was … ANOTHER tractor.   By then Pierce was looking up at Uncle Dave with unabashed adoration in his eyes. That is until Uncle Dave took him "to town" in his pickup truck and bought him a bright red toy combine just like the one in the building.  That's when the adoration turned into worshiping.

And then … later that morning … the heavens opened and rained down candy and puppy dogs.   Uncle Dave drove the tractor out of the building and took Pierce (and his sisters) for a ride up the road.  I can only

imagine that Pierce was thinking how great it would be if only  his dad could fit a gigantic metal building in their backyard so they could have a tractor too.

I worried a bit that being tossed aside like a rusty Hot Wheels and replaced by Dave might hurt Dean’s feelings but it didn’t seem to bother him.  And then it dawned on me that he might have fallen in love
too ― with that gigantic metal building.  He acted like it was just any other metal building you might see on any other farm, but I saw that droplet of drool fly from his beard as his body started twitching when he looked at all the space inside those four walls.  I know he was thinking about all the useless junk unique found objects he could store in a place like that if only … oh, if only… he had a building like that. 

During the trip back home Dean was reinstated to his previous status with Pierce and all was back to normal.  During a ten hour car ride there's plenty of time to be alone with your thoughts and I have a feeling both Pierce and Dean were thinking about combines and tractors and gigantic metal buildings.  I can't swear to it, but during that one quiet moment when the Netflix movie wasn't playing on the Kindle Fire, Myra wasn't trying to convince her mom she "wasn't criticizing" and Emerson wasn't wishing my iPhone battery hadn't died during Angry Birds ... during that single quiet moment, I think heard "if only ..."

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If Wishes Were Horses

Why Are You Pointing Over There You Boobie?

Way back here I promised when I got over this I would post some more photos of Abby and Jorge’s wedding, filled with smiles and happy faces. Finally, at long last, after a ridiculous and embarrassingly long time, I am fulfilling my promise because I am unequivocally over it! (Click on any photo to make it larger--or not, some seem to work, some don't)

It took a while because I’m not now, nor have I ever been, very good at getting over things.  Especially things I am unable to control; because I like need to be in control.  And if something isn’t going right, I like need to fix it.  So when I couldn’t control or fix the lack of music during the wedding ceremony, my heart felt like it was a booby being smashed in between the two cold, hard metal slabs of a mammogram machine.  If you are a guy and are having difficulty relating to my metaphor, pretend you are Jack and you have just climbed up the beanstalk.  But because you drank a lot of coffee before you began your climb you need to relieve yourself.  You sneak around and find the giant’s bathroom, lift the lid to the toilet bowl which, because you are not a giant, is approximately level with your, uh, with John Thomas.  You are just beginning to feel some relief when the giant stumbles into the bathroom bellowing and rubbing his swollen eyes where the golden goose had whacked him with her wing.  Before you can run, he closes the lid on the toilet bowl and, of course, John Thomas.  And then he sits on it.  Get the picture?

 Unlike me, some people bounce back quickly from a heart squashing.  They're like one of those foam balls after it’s released from your fist – boing!   They come to work humming, wearing cotton pajama bottoms with big colorful flowers all over them, hiking boots on their feet, a bulky wool shirt buttoned incorrectly, feeling completely and totally at peace with their appearance.  They flow and bounce through life like a flea on a dog.  Every now and then, when they get scratched off, they just jump onto the next animal walking by.  

Others take a bit more time to get over it – like a slow filling balloon.  They are cautious but plucky people.  They try different hair colors but they have it colored professionally.  They bungee jump but they research the bungee company’s safety record first.  And when their hair falls out after one too many dye jobs, or they vomit on the bungee-jumper-watchers down below, even though they are embarrassed, they limit the time they dwell on those episodes to a day or possibly two.  Hair will grow back after all and vomit responds to soap and water.

And then there’s me.  I believe I could be considered gifted at a lot of vital tasks, like worrying, obsessing, sticky note writing, and list making.  I cannot, however, include getting over things in that list of talents.  For example, one hot summer night back in Nebraska, I was chasing fireflies in a neighbor’s garden with my little sister and when the police pulled up to investigate the “trespassers” I ran like hell for home while she stood there sniveling and scared.   Even now, every time I see a firefly my heart clenches and I am ashamed.  I should have at least screamed “run!” before I abandoned her.

It’s not that I don’t ever get over things without lengthy emotional torment.  I only fret for a short time that people will blame me for not maintaining my husband properly when his head grows wings because I can’t get him to sit down for ten consecutive minutes so I can buzz off those 27 wisps of hair.  Dean is Dean after all.  But when my heart is being gripped by wrenching emotional pain from, oh, I don’t know, a wedding ceremony with an idiot DJ who doesn’t play the music, and a nutso florist who neglects to bring the bouquets until it’s too late, it takes me a while to recover.

Anyway, back to my point.  My squished-heart feeling continued for way too long because I couldn’t (some might say wouldn’t) get over thinking I should have been able to magically make the music start and make bouquets magically appear.  But as I said, I did finally, absolutely, undeniably, get over it.  And do you know what got me to that point?  Do you?  Time and technology.  Yes, my pitiful aching heart has been released from the jaws of the booby squeezer and revived through spending hours and hours and hours with the technological wonders of Powerpoint. 

What? You didn’t know Powerpoint was an integral part of the treatment for Incapabiliosoreleasitis Syndrome?  Well it is.  I am living proof that it works.  Yup.  I think I’ll even market it – “Psychological Healing Through Powerpoint.”   One dose of creating a 39-minute, musically-enhanced  Powerpoint show of our trip to the Amazon, and of course, the wedding, was all I needed.   I recommend it to every other crazy mother out there suffering from post-wedding I Should Have/Why Didn’t I/ Where’s the DJ – Let Me At Him Disease.  I’m telling you, there is no more powerful drug than culling through 11,914 (yes, Icounted) digital photos, finding, downloading and learning to use programs to convert, trim and fade music, and then obsessively skillfully tweaking the slideshow until it’s perfect.   Well…as perfect as you can get it until your husband starts giving you the “you’re not really STILL working on that show are you?” look and you’re forced to stop.

After I watched and listened to that show 25 or 30 times my memories began to physically change.  I began to believe the DJ really did play the songs he had been told to play and Abby really did walk down the aisle to music.  And there really were bouquets and corsages and boutonnieres.  Somewhere around the 15^th hour of working on the wedding portion of the show I began to wonder why I’d wasted so much time anguishing about a wedding that was beautiful even without music.  Because when I got over it I remembered that a week before the wedding there had been an attempted coup and we weren’t even sure we would be able to come.  I had forgotten, until I got over it, that during that coup, I told Abby I didn’t care if there was music or cake or dinner or flowers.  The only thing I cared about was being there to watch her get married.  The only thing that would break my heart was if I wasn’t. 

Throughout the wedding ceremony, if I would have remembered what I’d said one short week earlier, I wouldn’t have needed to get over anything because the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, and the love was palpable.  They got married.  And we were there.  And that’s all that mattered.  And you know what?  Even though there weren’t bouquets and corsages and boutonnieres, we were surrounded by beauty.  And even though there wasn’t music, the vows we listened to were more moving and more eloquent than any song we might have heard.  And I know that now.  Because now …  I am over it.

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Why Are You Pointing Over There You Boobie?

Wallowing―It’s Not Just For Pigs

As you may or may not be aware (and if you aren’t, you must have been living deep in a swamp in the rainforest of Ecuador) I am the Duchess, the Baroness, and the Princess of all things guilt. And if that guilt is even remotely related to my role as mother, I am the all-time Ultimate Queen Of Guilt. I also tend to be a bit of a helicopter mom/wife/daughter/tour director (take your pick). Actually, if I’m being totally honest, I have an obsessive need to be in control of most e • v • e • r • y thing. Yeah, yeah….go ahead. Shake your head slowly and say it ….“poor, poor Dean”.

Since my cryptic post about the wedding, I haven’t written anything else because I have been busy wallowing in mother guilt. I have been tormenting myself with “what if I would have” and “I should have” and “dang it, why didn’t I!?” Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20, and even though I sorta-kinda know in my head that there wasn’t much I could have done at the time, I still believe in my heart I should have been able to take control and make Abby and Jorge’s wedding ceremony perfect. Me. I should have been that person who thinks quickly on their feet. That person who realizes immediately something’s not right, springs into action and fixes everything before anybody else realizes there’s a problem. But I wasn’t. And I didn’t. Six days after the wedding, as I was (still) whining about my failure to “fix it” to my sister, she looked me in the eye, took a breath and said, in that special way only a loving sister can, “Cathy. Abby is fine. Get over it!”

It is now 18 days past the wedding and I’ve finally decided it’s time to take her advice. It’s time to move on and focus on the other parts of the wedding that WERE awesome and fun and perfect. Such as “Ryan aka MacGyver Comes to the Rescue”. Who says you need a special button hook specifically designed for the tiny covered buttons on a wedding dress? ... or ... “How To Drink Whiskey While Salsa Dancing Without Spilling (much) On Your Partner.” And we’re not talking small shot glasses here. We’re talkin’ tumblers.  ... or ... “Adventures in the Beauty Salon.” I’ll bet you didn’t know that asking in Spanish for a “simple and elegant” hairstyle translates to “a hairstyle coated with so much lacquer you can bounce a bowling ball off your head and not feel it.”

I hope to soon regale you with stories and photos of all of our adventures and I promise that from now on, all my guilt and obsessing will be kept completely in my head—anything wedding related anyway. I make no promises about any future events I am unable to control.

You didn’t really think I’d transformed myself from a guilt-ridden control freak to a relatively “normal” person that quickly did you?◦

Wallowing―It’s Not Just For Pigs

Recipe for A Wedding Ceremony

To a garden in Ecuador add the following ingredients:

~ One Master of Ceremony announcing as if he was calling contestants for “The Price is Right”

~ Confused American parents who are taking photos with their daughter, hear their names announced over a microphone, come running over to the ceremony area and discover they are expected to walk to their seats

~ Applause from the guests each time the contestants (parents, bridesmaid, best man, etc.) are announced

~ One DJ who plays only one song out of six during the ceremony because he hadn't taken the time to check his equipment beforehand and was missing a cord for the sound system.

~ One florist who delivers the bouquets, corsages and boutonnieres (made of the wrong flowers) during the middle of the ceremony.

~ One flower girl with no basket of petals

~ One worried bridesmaid with no bouquet

~ One gorgeous stressed-out bride with no bouquet

~ One very handsome groom, concerned about his bride, with no boutonniere

~ One confused American

~ One panicking American mother

 Sprinkle over all of this:
~ thoughts of “this must be a pre-ceremony practice; this can’t be real”, while the Master of Ceremony “announces” the bouquet-less bride, at which time the confused parents and bridesmaid mouth to each other, “are you kidding me? …. is this really it?”


Stir in:
~ a father, sitting by his wife in the front row, wondering what is happening, who hears the bride's name announced, and races over get his visibly upset daughter, standing alone, by a tree, trying to compose herself, so he can walk her down a grass aisle with no rose petals, no candles and no music.


Add:
~ Approximately 70 Ecuadorian guests who are thinking “oh…..this must be what an American wedding is like” and 11 American guests who are thinking “oh, this must be what an Ecuadorian wedding is like”.


Blend all ingredients on high power until you see tears, confusion, more tears, sadness and even a bit of anger.


After blending, allow time for the bridesmaid to hand tissue after tissue to the tearful bride. At this point it will be tempting to strangle the DJ and punch out the Master of Ceremony. Refrain from doing this for ten full minutes. After ten minutes, listen closely to the most heartfelt, beautiful and touching vows recited by the bride and groom.  Observe rings being exchanged, and witness the transformation of tears to smiles.

Even if the ingredients in this recipe are not perfect, or fresh, and the blending results in an explosion rather than a smooth batter, the adoration and love surrounding this creation will be palpable.

Enjoy in the company of the ones you love.

Photos courtesy of Ryan Fuhrman

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Recipe for A Wedding Ceremony

One More Before I Go

I don’t know if anybody has noticed, but I haven’t been here for a while. I’m not in blog land as much as most people anyway, but this has been longer than usual even for me. Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been busy. Busy doing all kinds of things.

One whole afternoon I was busy looking at this.  The water is so high that it is gushing over the Pathfinder Dam spillway for the first time since 1984.  It's become a popular thing for the locals to do on a summer afternoon.  People pack up their kids, throw a picnic lunch in the car and go check out the spillway.  Okay, I was there as part of a field trip during work hours so I wouldn't have been able to blog then anyway (at least not if the boss was anywhere nearby), but the sun, the fresh air, the spray of the water and just the thrill of being a field trip threw the thought of blogging right out of my head.

Removing the bathroom countertops at home has taken a lot of time that I could have been blogging. Alright, I didn’t really do any of the actual removing, but I am an awesome GSG (Go-fer Supporter Girl). I have perfected the technique of holding a flashlight while offering commiserating comments. "Ohh… I’ll bet that hurt. Can I get you a pillow for you head?

Sure you don’t want a pillow? How’s it going?

Is the top coming off? What if we can’t get it off?” Intermixed with sweet offers of “can I do anything? Do you need anything? Need me to get a tool? Want me to try?” I did spend a lot of minutes with a vacuum and broom once the counters were removed and I’ve had to spend time comforting Lily who sits on the floor by the bathroom cabinet, sadly meowing as she stares up at an empty hole, wondering how long it’ll be until she can get a nice cool drink from the faucet again.

Then of course somebody had to meet the countertop guys and hang out at home while they installed them.  I didn't do that, but I was in charge of meeting the plumber so he could (NOT---see update) install the sinks and faucets.  And I did coordinate all that counter guys/plumber scheduling, which can consume a fair number of minutes.

Speaking of coordinating I would like to rant a bit here. Wouldn’t you think when your profession is installing granite countertops that you would do the best you could do? Wouldn’t you think when your profession was to install granite countertops you would do a better job than Mr. Homeowner could? Wouldn’t you think you could cut circles that were evenly spaced both left to right

and top to bottom.  Isn't that what a template drawing is for? My six year old granddaughter could have drawn better spaced holes for cutting.

Dean had to spend hours gluing in extra support boards because the original countertop was a crap job (apparently not installed by a professional). He made sure the surface was perfectly level. I vacuumed and wiped down the whole area so the professional granite installer would have a clean work area. Yet when the professional granite countertop installer cut the holes for the sinks and faucets on-site (only the granite God on-high knows




why that wasn’t done in the shop), he didn’t feel the need to lay down a tarp on very nice maple floors. Honestly. That meant I had to mop floors before it was really necessary.  There wasn't even enough dog hair on the floors to knit a sweater yet.

I was worried the faucets wouldn't fit onto the unevenly spaced holes or if they did, they would look as unevenly spaced as the holes did.  Dean told me that the faucets are made to be adjustable over holes. “They don’t have to sit in the center of the hole. The plumber will figure it out. That’s why we’re paying a professional to install the sinks and faucets. It’ll be okay.” Wouldn’t you think if you were a professional granite counter installer you would strive for perfection? Maybe even have some pride in your work? Wouldn’t you think a professional granite countertop installer wouldn’t think “okay” was good enough? Don’t you think if I am paying big bucks for granite countertops to be installed by a professional, I should be able to expect better than just okay? I would even be happy with near-perfection. But just okay? From a professional granite installer? Was it too much to expect more than that?  .........    Boy, that went on longer than I expected, but I feel better now. And I did warn you.

*** Countertop Update.  Beware.  If you thought the last rant was bad, wait'll you read this:  Turns out I do have a good crap sensor because when the plumber came Tuesday morning to install the sinks and faucets, he discovered the faucet holes were too large for the faucets.  The faucets that were In.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  So I got to spend my lunch hour plus an hour at Home Depot, on the phone, and e-mailing photos to the contractor.  Then more phone time with woman who schedules the contractors who told me "most plumbers just go buy a larger washer so the faucets will fit," to which I replied, using my sister's tried and true response:  "I am sorry.  That is not acceptable."  And then I reiterated how poorly drilled the holes were and how they were off center and how they'd chipped off a piece of granite, and how it doesn't matter if other plumbers just buy a larger washer.  Those washers were what came with the faucets.  The faucets that Were.  At.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  Then she told me she'd take my photos, go talk to her boss and "they will take care of things."  Let's hope so.  Let's hope they bring me new countertops and find somebody who knows how to drill holes in granite.  Because I WILL either get new counters or money back.  And right now I feel like drilling a hole in the hole-driller's head. 

Another update  (That's what I get by trying to work on this over a series of days)...  I met with granite guy at 5:00 p.m..  It's hard to want to drill a hole in a granite guy's head when he's standing in front of you, admitting his job wasn't perfect but willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy.  I was hell-bent to have them rip out those counters and bring new ones but he wanted the chance to "make it right" for me.  So as I type he is "fixing" the holes with epoxy and installing the faucets and sinks.  If the job doesn't look good, isn't secure, or we are not happy, I have the right to have them ripped out and replaced.  He's a local business guy with a bathroom/kitchen business and my gut said "he's basically a good guy, he isn't trying to screw you, he wants to make you happy and he wants to fix this so give him a chance.  Either this works and you will have sinks and faucets or it won't and you'll rip it all out."  Leslie came over to advocate for me in case I backed down and even she felt he really wanted to make things right and look good.  So once he's finished, Dean and I will make the determination as to how happy we are.  And have his card and phone number with no hesitation to call if I have any issues down the line.  Cross your fingers. 


***Three and half hours later, the faucets and sinks are set and the worst of the hole cutting (first photo above) now looks like this.  Whaddya think?

As countertop guy was leaving, there was a fair amount of "I appreciate you being open and letting me try to fix ... I'm sorry if I was snippy but ... you're right, I made a mistake and ... I'm not usually this bitchy but ... I'm a consumer too, I understand ... thank you for staying and ... I value your business ... I spent alot of money and ... thank you for letting me come back and ... tact is not my strong suit ... I understand why ..."   .................kind of like makeup sex but without the sex.
And now, I promise, no more ranting.  I'm too busy self-medicating with a G&T now to rant anyway. ***

We spent a couple of afternoons downtown listening to music, eating food, drinking beer and hanging out which got in the way of blogging.  One of those afternoons we brought the grandkids.   Leslie hadn't had time to give them lunch before we picked them up but we told her not to worry.  We would feed them.  And we did ... cotton candy, smoothies, lemonade, fudge, funnel cake, and ice cream.  In between all the eating

Pierce almost fought a knight,

Dean tried his best to control the kids,

after he'd gotten them all worked up,

and then we took them home.

But what’s really been keeping me from blogging is all my obsessing, stressing, preparing and shopping for my trip to Ecuador so I can take Abby’s wedding dress to her. Any trip preparation normally involves at least a little bit of shopping. But when you’re visiting a country whose daily low temperature averages higher than your daily high temperature, it involves A LOT of shopping. You’d think this would make me happy but I was not born with the shopping gene. I hate shopping. I hate every aspect of shopping. I hate looking through racks. I hate trying things on. I hate trying to find a deal. I hate wondering if I look good in this or that. I hate wearing something new for the first time. I walk around with an armful of things to try on, but before I make it to the dressing room, I talk myself out of them and begin putting them back on the racks, one by one. And more often than not, if I actually do try something on, somehow manage to make myself buy it and bring it home, I talk myself out of it and return it. I'm even more amazed than you may be, because what I hate most about shopping is how much time it takes. Gosh, shopping for hours at the mall yesterday was so much fun; I think I’ll waste even more time today by driving back to the store, waiting in line to return this article of clothing that I haven’t even taken out of the bag. Yeah, that makes no sense…even to me.

The spooky thing is, now that I’ve been forced to do so much of shopping, I’ve begun to feel a magnetic pull toward sale signs. I’m not kidding. I find myself hovering around clothing racks with 60% off signs on top and I don’t remember how I got there. Minutes turn into hours. Dean has called me twice during my “quick” trips wondering if I was ever coming home. I can’t remember the last time I came home from the mall without a bag in my hand. And I never return anything anymore. I don’t know exactly when or how it happened but I think I’ve become one ….....…. a shopper!

All those clothing purchases added to my already mounting ironing. I’d gotten a bit behind because I was spending so much time shopping. Getting though this mountain of ironing took a long, long time.  Time I could have been blogging.

Packing for my trip has taken alot of time too. There’s an art to packing.

Especially when you’re trying to fit in things like insect nets, butterfly spreaders, entomology books, and kitty and puppy toys. And then there’s the issue of one small item……….the purpose of this whole trip ………. the WEDDING DRESS.  I’ve been imagining horror stories about getting this dress to Ecuador.

Stewardess: I’m sorry, that carryon suitcase is too large for the overhead bins. We will need to gate check it.

Me: No. No.  You can not take this bag from me. It’s my daughter’s wedding dress. You can not take it. 

Stewardess: I’m sorry, but you need to give it to me. It will not fit in the carryon area.

Me:  Just try to pry it out of my hands.  Go ahead.  Try.

Stewardess:  I'm sorry.  I really must gate check it.  

Me:  No. If you take the bag, you take me with it.

Stewardess: Did you bring a coat? The baggage hold is cold.

Fortunately I made a new best friend---the space bag.

Yes, not only can you shrink stacks of newly purchased clothing into the size of a cereal box, but you can shrink a heavy wedding dress into a carryon bag.  But I think I'll bring a jacket with me, just in case.

So you see why I’ve been too busy to blog. I’ve been so busy that for the last two weeks I haven’t even put in my 30 minutes per day of Espanol.  I do feel a bit guilty about that, but here’s the deal. Two weeks ago when I watched Buzz Lightyear switched to Buzz Spanish and I only caught about three words of his whole conversation, I felt my Spanish-speaking confidence deflate like one of my space bags when it was accidentally poked by a pin in a piece of clothing I’d missed removing. "Is five more hours of spouting Spanish to a computer really going to make a difference?" I said to myself? "No. Hablo español ahora? Un poco, y no muy bien. Tranquilo.  No se preocupe" I told myself. "Voy a estudiar en el plano." And anyway, I can use those five hours for some last minute shopping!

Hasta luego!◦

One More Before I Go

Letting Go

While the folks here at home slid on ice-covered roads and shivered with single-digit lows, Abby and I were in Lincoln and Omaha surrounding ourselves with the soft sounds of taffeta, chiffon and satin which glowed in shades of white and ivory. Yes, we were shopping for a bridal gown. A perfect bridal gown. THE bridal gown.


There are an amazing number of bridal shops in business these days and there are literally hundreds of different styles and fabrics.  There are gowns in satin, chiffon, silk, or taffeta.  Gowns with huge puffy skirts, gowns with flowing skirts and gowns to make you look like a mermaid. There are gowns that lace up or button or zip.   Some are covered in beads or lace and some have absolutely none. There are gowns so heavy you'd need a weight-training program to wear them and gowns light and flowy.

The plan was to visit bridal shops on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.   Shopping for the dress you will wear on your perfect day brings forth thoughts of romance, feelings of love, and excitement about the future which will soon be your present. That's what the bridal magazines would have you believe anyway. I think we both thought it would be a relaxing, bonding, laughter-filled process broken up with lunch, snacks, and visiting, culminating in the discovery of the perfect gown. It was bonding, there was laughter and we did have lunch and snacks.  What the bridal magazines don't tell you though, is that in reality, bridal gown shopping is hard work.

It was two days of trying on anywhere between 30 to 40 gowns. I honestly lost track.  Over and over, out of the dressing room she would come, critically standing in front of the mirror to answer the all-important question "is THIS the one?" I knew Abby was wearing out near the end of day one, in store number three, when, as we were trying to decide which gowns she wanted to try on, she looked at me with that wiped out look in her eyes and said "would you please push the dresses along the rack for me."  Before we'd started shopping on Friday morning I didn’t believe it would be possible that she wouldn’t find a dress before Sunday.  Saturday morning when we were in our fourth dress shop and the perfect dress was yet to be found, even though I wasn’t sure how much more dress shopping either of our bodies could survive, more dress shopping on Sunday seemed a real possibility.


And then, at approximately 10:43 a.m., on Saturday morning, in a dress shop in Omaha, just as I was thinking to myself, “I guess I’m tougher than I thought…seeing her in wedding gowns hasn’t made me feel like crying”, out she walked in THE ONE.  She looked gorgeous. She glowed. There were “ahhhhhhhhhhs” from other brides-to-be and their mothers. And it turns out I’m not so tough. There was hugging and some tears.


I know I won’t be tough when the move to Ecuador comes. That’s when this letting go process that I both look forward to and dread will become achingly real. I know over the next few months there will be lots of
hugging and lots of tears. My heart will be bursting with joy for Abby and breaking into pieces all at the same time. I survived the letting go process with Leslie but practice does not make it any easier. I am not very good at this letting go thing. It should be easier to let go when your daughters have grown into loving, caring, intelligent, independent and open-minded women. It should be easier when they are both braver than I have ever been and are willing to break out of their comfort zone to experience new things and explore new ideas. It should be easier when they have chosen partners that I am happy and proud to call my son; men who I trust to care for my most precious possession. It should be easier because I have loved watching them evolve into successful women who have begun to build their own wonderful lives. It should be easy because I wouldn’t want it any other way. But it wasn't easy to let Leslie go and it's not any easier now as the time comes for me to finally let Abby go. One moment I think how exciting it will be for her to live in Ecuador with the man she loves, to experience another culture, to become fluent in Spanish, to find all those awesome bugs, to follow through and actually do something alot of us would be afraid to do.  And the next moment I want to grab onto her with both arms, dig my heels in and scream “don’t go!” And if I do scream out "don't go!" as she's heading to the plane, I know she will smile at me and tell me she loves me and not to worry. 

It will be okay.◦

Letting Go