Yesterday I orchestrated a mini-meeting with my soon-to-be son-in-law. Lately jokes have been flying about Big Changes after The Big Day, and since most jesting has a kernel of truth, I wanted to see how big that kernel is. Having been chaperone, I actually make most of the jokes. But he never takes the bait (he has a stoic sense of humor).
ME: “You guys are so sick of me, we’ll probably only see you on Christmas and Easter.” SON: “Don’t forget, there’s Thanksgiving, too.”
ME: Wow, that apartment’s second bedroom will be perfect for when the mother-in-law comes to visit.” SON: [keeps walking]
Yesterday’s meeting went well. Obviously, they are going to want a lot of time and space, especially at first (I don’t blame them). But I came away assured that they want to maintain active ties with the family. And I assured him that, despite my needy repartee of late, I do have proper perspective. I tossed into the ring a few ideas to prevent us from losing touch. I also asked him to be forthright with me on occasion—as I will likely need his help in morphing this relationship.
This moving meeting didn’t come about arbitrarily: that morning, the mailman delivered the dress I’m to wear on The Big Day. Upon trying it on, my first reaction was, “YESS! I don’t look like a CLOWN!” Then I broke down and cried. This October, when I don that frock, head to the chapel, and am ushered to my seat in the front row, I want it to be a time of joy, not a fearful nightmare. So yesterday, in the afternoon hours, I mustered the wherewithal to clear the air. In tears, I told him, “I don’t want to cry like this at the wedding.” He replied, “I don’t think you’re gonna get around that.”
And we hugged.