I made my daughter’s dress without going broke or insane – and you probably can too!*
This book is dedicated to all those other moms who collect pictures of the prettiest bridal gowns from the eve of their daughter’s 18th birthday, and then hide them.
Early July (The Year Before)
It was a lazy Atlanta summer day in progress. My husband and I hadn’t moved far from the kitchen table when our daughter called to say she was dropping by with her boyfriend and some lunch. The Cheshire Cat grins and unusual deference should have tipped us off, but more than 3 years of dating and nary a peep had lulled us. After half an hour of merry absorption in their gustatory delights, we finally noticed the newly adorned left hand. The date would be June of next year, they said. Torpor instantly evaporated, and I leaped into MOB mode. [MOB: Mother of the Bride, and hopefully as persuasive as the real mob.] Napkin to the lips, crumbs to the floor, and I was ready to help my daughter with her big event. The bridal magazines were excavated from under the bed and from the bookcase. A shoebox of evening and bridal patterns was opened for perusal.
My firstborn, having inherited the desire and mindset to manage everything her pretty little hands ever could grasp, entirely from her dad, suggested maybe she could think about it later. Seeing a MOB meltdown about to occur, she promised that later would be soon. It’s already less than a year I told her, barely time. Her new fiancé, a mellow sort, seemed unperturbed at signs of incipient craziness in his future mother–in-law, and smiled through an hour of dithering.
So began my year of being responsible for The Dress. Luckily the bride and groom did almost everything else.
* You must have sewn at least one dress that you or the giftee was willing to wear in public.
This book is dedicated to all those other moms who collect pictures of the prettiest bridal gowns from the eve of their daughter’s 18th birthday, and then hide them.
Early July (The Year Before)
It was a lazy Atlanta summer day in progress. My husband and I hadn’t moved far from the kitchen table when our daughter called to say she was dropping by with her boyfriend and some lunch. The Cheshire Cat grins and unusual deference should have tipped us off, but more than 3 years of dating and nary a peep had lulled us. After half an hour of merry absorption in their gustatory delights, we finally noticed the newly adorned left hand. The date would be June of next year, they said. Torpor instantly evaporated, and I leaped into MOB mode. [MOB: Mother of the Bride, and hopefully as persuasive as the real mob.] Napkin to the lips, crumbs to the floor, and I was ready to help my daughter with her big event. The bridal magazines were excavated from under the bed and from the bookcase. A shoebox of evening and bridal patterns was opened for perusal.
My firstborn, having inherited the desire and mindset to manage everything her pretty little hands ever could grasp, entirely from her dad, suggested maybe she could think about it later. Seeing a MOB meltdown about to occur, she promised that later would be soon. It’s already less than a year I told her, barely time. Her new fiancé, a mellow sort, seemed unperturbed at signs of incipient craziness in his future mother–in-law, and smiled through an hour of dithering.
So began my year of being responsible for The Dress. Luckily the bride and groom did almost everything else.
* You must have sewn at least one dress that you or the giftee was willing to wear in public.
