MOTB or Get LifeAlert you old Bat!

I have always tried to keep personal things about my children out of this blog.  It’s my choice to share my crazy life, not theirs.  I try to allow them as much privacy as I can and keep them anonymous –or as anonymous as they can be with me as their mom.  So with that in mind, let me give you a basic rundown of my girls.

Daughter #1 is 22, very laid back and easy going.  Exactly opposite of me.

Daughter #2 is 20, very outgoing, extroverted with just a pinch of OCD loudness.  Exactly like me.  Like we actually have the same thoughts sometimes.  It’s like having a prettier, younger evil twin.

Daughter #3 is 12, going on like 17, is also laid back and is really just a sweet little girl.  Exactly polar opposite of me.  Like dogs and grass different.

So there you have it.  I have the most awesome kids ever.  (take that Brad and Angelina).

But here’s the thing.  Raising daughters is not a walk in the park.  It’s more like a walk on a creaky, old, narrow, swinging rope bridge with fraying rope and lots of cobwebs of emotion, that can go either way at any given moment, and you are constantly waving your arms like a flight attendant and standing on tippy toes trying to maintain some type balance.  And just when you think you have this whole parent thing balanced out, you are thrown a Molotov cocktail. All of a sudden there are giant anacondas, alligators, and sharknadoes trying knock you off that teeny tiny bridge into the ice cold water of death.  Or a nervous breakdown… basically the same thing.

The most recent large, bitey-alligator I’ve been Swamp Men wrestling is Daughter #1 has announced she is getting married.  And in all truth this is great news.  The Hubs and I are very proud and happy for both of them.   But here’s the big bite-off-your-leg- with-inverted- alligator-teeth-all-while-trying-to- drown-you-by-this-confusing-spin-move, worthy of a WWE superstar. (I gotta quit watching Animal Planet and apparently wrestling).  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  This is going to make me a “mother of the bride”. Me.  I’ve been to a White Snake concert! I’m what’s known as a “cool mom”.  I just got done having to drive a MINI VAN!  I had an Alley McBeal moment where my dead, lifeless body sat in a lazyboy chair with the remote in my had and my 20 cats starting to eat my toes.

Now, as you can imagine.  We have known this would happen eventually.  One does not have three beautiful daughters and get out of the marriage Gladiator Arena (I watched A LOT of TV this weekend).  It did not come as a shock when Boy #1 asked Daughter #1, as they had been dating a long time.  So the event was not really new.  But me.  Old enough to be a “mother of the bride”.  That… that is preposterous, insane, and terrible vicious lie.  The cat lady thoughts ran through my mind as I sat in the garage, eating ice cream from the carton (mint chocolate chip for those curious types).  How can I be the “mother of the bride”?  So.  I pondered. I thought. I grieved for my long lost youth.  I ate some more ice cream in the hot garage.  Then, I got up and went to bed.  After all, “mother of the bride” or MOTB needs her rest (it was almost 9:00 pm), lest she gets rowdy and breaks a hip.  “MOTB down, I repeat MOTB is down!  Call for backup ASAP. Get that old lady a LifeAlert jiminy crickets Myrtle!”.

However, upon waking the next day, it occurred to me that I… we would get to take over help plan a wedding, so the MOTB horror was momentarily forgotten. We talked colors, locations, why the dog could not walk the rings downthe aisle, and how doves can poo a lot thus not a good option as a finale.  Things were looking up.  Until we started looking at wedding dresses.  Then Bridesmaid dresses.  Then Mother dresses. 

Who? Who designs these things? Martha Washington? Seriously? And who decided peach or tan were good colors for anything, let alone a dress?  NO ONE looks good in peach or tan.  And what is “organza”?  And why would I wear something that sounds vaguely naughty though I’m not sure why.

I researched further. It seems that MOTB dresses come in two styles. 

Option #1 - Conservative Queen Elizabeth peach/tan variation probably in organza or a smart polyester blend, three- piece business suit type dress to be worn with “sensible” shoes and a large floppy hat.  I felt as though I would need to stomp down divots at the Kentucky derby during the reception.

OR

Option #2 - I am reliving my teenage years via my poor daughter, because I’m in the middle of my midlife crisis thank you very much. Do not call me mommy dearest, why is it so flippin hot in here and I’ll be darned if that bride will get all the attention, because I look so hot in this low-cut, inappropriately see thru lacy thing to be worn with six inch hooker heels because by golly I may be old, but I’m stylish (If I were Sher doing a music video aboard a navel ship) dress.  

And I can’t do either because, let’s face it, I look frumpy in peachy, business suit dresses, I look horrible in a hat and I certainly can’t pull off that outfit Sher has on let alone figure out my way into or out of it, and it would be a REAL pain when I had to potty like five times.  And there’s no way I could wear those thigh high boots.  Plus I was told I couldn’t wear black to the wedding (or butt-less leather thong suits).  Or white.  Or dance down the aisle as I was walking in.

So at least now I have a mission.  To find the happy middle ground.  I can now focus my attention on this task at hand, rather than making out my last will and testament and scoping out grave plots.  And I have another year to get used to the MOTB title.  Yea. That’s likely to happen.