Down the wishing well

The wishing won't stop.

It started when I left the post office. After my third day in a row there, selecting the perfect stamp (bonsai), asking about weight and delivery dates, adding a second stamp (yet another bonsai), and finally parting with Mark's pretty paper masterpieces, I pushed open the door, walked out onto the New York City sidewalk, and reached for my phone. All I wanted to do was call her and say, "Ma, can you believe it?" Only in her would I have been able to confide how vulnerable I felt: I'd just told 120 people that Mark and I were in love. I joked with Mark later, saying who knew the girl who blogs her innermost thoughts would ever feel exposed by a wedding invitation?

It happened again today, when I saw a picture on Facebook of a girl I knew in high school being walked down the aisle, flanked by her father and mother. I cursed my Jewish heritage for including both parents in the patriarchal tradition. If I were Catholic, my mother's absence wouldn't matter in that moment. But I know it does. With just my dad there (despite his wonderfulness!), the weight is uneven. Grief gives you an eternal limp.

If you've gone down the wishing well, you know what I know: It's not good to wish for things that can't come true.

So, I thought that instead of wishing to talk to my mother, I would write to her here over the next eight weeks leading up to the wedding. Here goes...

Dear Mom,

It's your little girl. I'm getting married!

His name is Mark and he's just lovely. Warm and funny and strong. Sometimes I worry you'd call him an "Eddie Haskell," because he's quite the charmer, particularly with the older ladies. But I think that would have only been your first impression. You would have grown to see what I see, and told me I'm very lucky, and to treasure him.

I'm trying on my wedding dress for the first time on Saturday, my 30th birthday. I'm calling it the best me-to-me present a gal could get: a preview of how she'll look on one of the happiest days of her life. You will be with me, as you always are, since I honor you every day by wearing your engagement stone. (I hope you approve of the beautiful facelift Mark gave to it!)

I try hard to honor you in my everyday actions. Smile. Talk to strangers. Be there for your friends. Impact the lives of others. Be kind to those less fortunate. Notice people who are often overlooked. Laugh too loud. Laugh at yourself. Laugh when life is good. Laugh even when it's not.

Sometimes the concept of "getting married" feels scary. Something that's happening to someone else. Something I can't possibly be old enough to do. Sometimes I'm surprised by who it is that fits me. Sometimes I'm scared of being this lucky -- of my happiness being found out and taken away. Best to act nonchalant so they'll skip over me. Maybe they knew how much we loved each other, Mom.

Next month it'll be the 10 year anniversary of when you passed away. I can't believe it's been that long. If I heard someone else say that, I'd say, "Get over it, man!" I wish I could. But your loss is still that -- a loss -- especially as I near such a delicate day.

This morning, I accidentally slammed my underwear drawer shut, and the photo of you, me, and Daddy came crashing down, bringing with it some loose change and my brand new bottle of perfume (an early birthday gift from Laura -- yes, 17 years later, she's still my best friend). I felt I heard you say: "Stop wishing, Missy. Enough!"

I'll try.

Love,
Missy

Here comes the bride, all dressed in...?

In case you're wondering how wedding dress shopping went... well, as I find with most things related to grief, the anticipation is the worst part. So, after a week or so of nerves for my first excursion, the actual day was an assortment of feelings:

Excitement: My friends' enthusiasm cheered me throughout the day. They oohed, they ahhed, they welled up, they scrunched their noses at the ones we all knew were hideous. And even though our tastes are all different from one another, they kept in mind what I like and what will reflect my personality. I really appreciated that.

Confusion: The more dresses you try on, the more confused you get! Chiffon, lace, strapless, sweetheart, halter, a-line, ballgown... and those are only the terms I can remember. While I did find some good options, I don't know that I've found "the dress," so there will be more shopping ahead. Which leads me to...

Exhaustion: Blame it on a week of pre-dress anxiety, the art of speed-waking the streets of Manhattan to race to the next appointment, the physicality of stepping in and out of dress after dress, or the momentary feelings of loss, but all those things combined left me one tired lady. Phew.

Grief: While I didn't consciously think of my mom while trying on dresses, I'm beginning to think that inside every bride is a little girl who can't believe that's really her in the mirror. And in some ways, she needs her mother to verify that she's all grown up and ready for this big adventure--basically, to kick her out of the nest. I guess without her, I've been out of the nest for a while, but the sudden shift from child to adult can still be alarming at times. Especially when wearing a white gown.

So, next month will bring another round of shopping... any tips?

Say Stress to the Dress

I'm going wedding dress shopping for the first time tomorrow. Most girls seem to live for this moment, having dreamed of it since they were little. And even I have found myself glued to episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress" and worshiping the holy books: bridal magazines. But tonight, I feel nervous.

Yes, I will have my two companions with me tomorrow. Girls who've known me since I was 13, who've been there through the best and worst times, and who even attended the last party that celebrated me in a white dress: my bat-mitzvah.

But every other girl I know has tried on bridal gowns in front of her mother, has emerged twirling from dressing rooms to oohs and ahhs from the one woman on this planet who thinks her daughter simply can't look bad in anything she tries on. If things were different, I know I would have gone with Sally.

At 29, nine years after she passed, shouldn't I be accustomed to this way of life? Or will I always cry the night before big milestones like these?