by Susan Wiggs
There were a few surface similarities. It’s true that I married my own college sweetheart, and also eerily true that he was also 6-foot-4 and athletic, never knowing his future daughter would one day manage to find an updated version of him. But for me there was no proposal on bended knee, no photo shoot for engagement portraits (huh?), no luxury weekend getaway to seal the deal, no video record of the deed. This was back when the only thing you could see on video was a Betamax version of Jane Fonda in legwarmers, working out between glurgs of Michelob. Nobody proposed to anyone. We were in love, in school and penniless, and we simply assumed that getting married was the next item on the agenda for us.
* * *
MEET THE PARENTS
You might get to choose your fiancé, but you don’t get to choose your in-laws. I pretty much hit the jackpot with Dave’s family—loving parents, cool brothers, down-to-earth aunts and uncles, grandparents who spoiled him (and now me) rotten. I got lucky.
Still, I laid some pretty awesome groundwork before I met them for the first time, just to be sure they understood how honored I felt to be their son’s main squeeze.
When I met Dave’s family for the first time, they didn’t see me coming. Like a typical boy, Dave hadn’t thought his parents would be interested in the fact that he’d finally met his Destiny.
I didn’t want to completely freak them out, so I kept quiet about the fact that I was obsessively in love with their son and let them figure it out for themselves. I don’t think it took very long. There were clear hints and obvious clues. Maybe it was that string of drool escaping from the corner of my mouth every time I looked at Dave. Maybe it was the fact that we both swooned and blushed every time our hands brushed. Or maybe Dave’s mom noticed that I hadn’t even touched the guest bed in their basement. Apparently, at dinner after I’d left their house, Dave got his nerve up and said to his parents: “You know Wiggs? Well, she and I are…”
“We know, David” was the response.
This is a perfect example of the difference between men and women. My mother had known every single detail, down to the last adorable nose hair, about Dave since way before our first make-out sesh. Over the course of thousands of expensive cell phone minutes, he had been discussed, dissected, sliced, diced and remade in the image of Prince Charming. All Dave had to do was utter an incomplete statement: “You know Wiggs?” and his parents were savvy. Yeesh. I’ll never understand it. Then again, I don’t think it was the sentence fragment that clued Dave’s family in. His parents always said (and this is a paraphrase from an actual conversation, so I’m not bragging) that they knew I meant something to their son because of the change that came over him once we were dating. Where he used to be one of the boys, playing king-of-the-mountain with leftover potstickers from last night’s dinner, he now asked me what I wanted before serving himself. He grew gentler, more alert, more giving. I can’t take full credit for this, of course. It was always part of his personality. But being around me, maybe, encouraged him to de-gruff his manly ways and let his sensitive side show a bit more. The effect was mutual, too. Being with Dave brought out my patience, my empathy and my desire to see my loved ones happy and relaxed.
So maybe he didn’t need to tell his mom how special we were to one another. She probably saw it well before we did.
* * *
So I never actually dreamed of a proposal. I simply dreamed of being married, and the engagement was the logical way to get from Point A to Point B. Not very romantic, I know, but it worked out well for us.
Remember, this was 1980, when the young folks of the world were busy shunning anything that smacked of tradition. The Alternative Era ended abruptly a year later, on July 29, 1981. This was the day the earth stood still for the die-hard romantics among us. Britain declared a national holiday, and in front of 3,500 invited guests, while an estimated 750 million people around the world watched on live television, the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
All of us who saw the pomp and circumstance can probably tell you where we were at the time. Most in the States were in our bathrobes, coffee mugs lifted in salute to the New Era. We were spellbound by the spectacle, the ceremony, the speeches, the music and, most especially—the dress. I’ll bet you can still picture it in your mind—the yards and yards of sumptuous ivory taffeta and lace, a twenty-five-meter train bringing up the rear.
Never mind all the troubles and tragedy that ensued for the royal couple. All we knew back then was that a real princess was being launched, and weddings would never be the same.
So pervasive was the influence of this event that even our as-yet-unborn daughters would feel its echo, decades later. I know this was the case in our family. Elizabeth’s determination to own her moment had its roots deep in the romance of that spectacular summer day in London.
While my vision for my own wedding was preoccupied with outcomes and goals, Elizabeth was determined to embark on the journey of a lifetime in her own way. I shunned the spotlight; she was comfortable at center stage. Fine, I thought. She’s going to do it her way. My job would be to serve as air-traffic controller for all the incoming new people. Or so I thought. Little did I know, we were in for a bumpy ride.
ELIZABETH
I feared that introducing our families to each other might be like introducing zebra mussels into a pristine Great Lakes harbor. Toxic. Here’s the thing: I’ve never actually been diagnosed, but I believe that I’m allergic to awkward situations. They give me rashes. Big, ugly red splotches that scream “I’m freakin’ uncomfortable.” And thinking about Dave’s and my parents meeting for the first time gave me hives. After all, I had endeavored to keep my more crass tendencies a secret from the Maas clan, but as soon as they met my bawdy, irrepressible mother, I worried that my cover would be blown.
I did have an ace in the hole, however. In the first few months after meeting me, Dave’s aunt was over at his house for dinner asking about his New Girlfriend. As you can probably imagine, one of the first things that comes up in conversation about me involves the fact that my mom is a romance writer.
On learning this, most people raise their eyebrows and commence psychoanalyzing me, the daughter of a novelist: Maybe she’s a precocious vixen who is inappropriately comfortable with words like bosom and shaft (in actuality, my mother tells me her ears bleed when I make the slightest reference to sex). Maybe she’s a spoiled princess, living in the lap of luxury and dining on bonbons as her loincloth-clad butler fluffs the mountain of silk pillows upon which she sits. (Reality: Writing is not the profession to take up if you want a private jet and an on-call masseuse.) Perhaps she’s an airhead with the emotional depth of, well, a romance novel heroine who believes that a woman’s true calling in life is to find a well-endowed, swarthy man to marry and serve. (Further Reality: my mother’s heroines are smart, independent and usually pretty sassy, and second, we Wiggs women are boisterous and outspoken and don’t need no stinkin’ men to complete us.)
Lucky for me, Dave’s aunt made none of these snap judgments.
It turned out that not only was she an avid romance reader, but she was a fan—a fan!—of my mom’s books. I’d never met anyone who already knew of my mom! I knew she wasn’t reading Susan Wiggs novels in an attempt to nose into our family. She just enjoyed and respected my mom’s work. Finally! The books that had been the bane of my young adulthood were now making me look good!
Still, Dave’s aunt was but one member of a giant family. How would the rest of his relatives react to my forthright, blustery mother and my gangly, Texan father?
The auspicious meeting would take place the weekend of our graduation from Pomona College. I set up a picnic brunch in the middle of a field on our campus and proceeded to chug Maalox in a vain attempt to settle my stomach.
Zebra mussels? What zebra mussels? Friends, I tell you, it was magical. Our parents instantly loved each other, our grandparents started joking around like old buddies. That initial mutual respect and a
ffection for each other has remained throughout Dave’s and my relationship, engagement and marriage, and looking back I’m glad I put special effort into making sure they had an enjoyable first meeting.
And, yeah, my mom told the story about the time I peed my pants during a ballet recital. And the one about the time I sat on a nail and got an infection on my butt cheek.…and the time I tried to convince my eighth-grade English class that unicorns existed and the teacher called my parents in to make sure they weren’t crazy. But Dave’s mom didn’t even bat an eyelash. Maybe my Eddie Haskell routine hadn’t been necessary, after all.
Now, I realize that this isn’t always the case. Some family meetings go over like a fart in church and sometimes nothing can be done about that. Still, you’re the glue bringing these two families together, so you might as well set a pleasant tone…even if you know grenades will eventually be launched.
The same core truth will shine through—be true to who you are. Be strong in affirming your couplehood and trust your loved ones to love and trust you. It’s remarkable how smart and supportive everyone will be when they get a load of your positive attitude. And it’s incredibly easy to have a positive attitude when you’re meeting the people who created your Prince Charming.
SUSAN
Many relationships in life are made according to your choosing. Your daughter’s in-laws do not fall into this category. It’s a completely random pairing. There isn’t even a name for this relationship. “My child’s in-laws” is a mouthful. For the sake of brevity, let’s call them your co-in-laws.
You simply don’t get a vote. Sure, she’s bagged Prince Charming, and you couldn’t be happier about that. But he did not sprout, fully formed, out of a petunia patch somewhere. He has People—a mom and dad, siblings, quirky uncles, aunts with good taste in reading material, uncountable cousins. And over the course of the wedding journey, you’re going to meet all or most of them.
All I can offer is a bit of wisdom from my own wise mother: be nice and hope for the best. Advice, I might add, that applies to most of life’s moments.
But you worry. These people are going to be in your daughter’s world for the rest of her life. You’ll soon be sharing her with them at holiday time, on vacations, get-togethers, celebrations through the years. You’re going to be co-grandparents with them.
What if you’re incompatible? What if you don’t like them? Suppose their political views annoy you, or you disagree with their take on child-rearing or economics? Worse, what if they serve the stuffing in the bird instead of on the side? What if the only music they listen to is by Joe Pat Paterek and His International Polka Stars? What if they practice philately? Or hoard back issues of National Geographic magazine?
Or, worst of all, what if they’re perfect? What if the dad is an esteemed lawyer and man of letters, and the mom is an eminent physician who runs marathons with her three flawless sons, practices at an HIV clinic and spends two months a year in a tiny African nation, treating indigent patients? What if the groom’s parents are brilliant, witty, attractive, kindhearted and unassuming?
If that’s the case, then they’re my co-in-laws.
I am not making this up. The in-laws are saving the world, and the home team…? Well, we write romances and play golf. Clearly we were going to have to step up our game.
As it turned out, we didn’t have to do anything but be ourselves, and the same held true for the groom’s family. We came together, recognizing that our children were very likely going to be joined for life, and then it became easy to focus on the things we have in common—two adored children and high hopes for them both being the main glue to bind us.
Eventually we discovered more random commonalities. Both moms are named Susan. They were married on June 28, 1980. We were married on June 27, 1980. The more we discovered about each other the more our hopes solidified—the cause was good.
The key to a successful first meeting, I think, is this: don’t try too hard. Don’t set up a big social situation filled with minefields of awkwardness and opportunities for one-upmanship. And for God’s sake, don’t overshare. Trust me, you’ll do your daughter no favor at all if you talk about the existence of your husband’s third nipple or your code names for some of her former boyfriends.
Instead, relax and above all, listen and laugh. And this bears repeating—be nice and hope for the best.
* * *
CHEAT SHEET
TOO BUSY BEING BLISSFULLY ENGAGED
TO HAVE READ THE WHOLE CHAPTER? THIS ISN’T A
HOW-TO BOOK (I’LL LEAVE THAT TO THE EXPERTS),
BUT SOME OF WHAT I WENT THROUGH WAS FAIRLY
UNIVERSAL…SO HERE’S YOUR CHEAT SHEET.
Once you start telling people you’re engaged, get ready for news to spread like a virus. Make sure you tell all of the VIPs around the same time so you can avoid getting grief because your engagement popped up on Facebook before you told your family.
Introducing your families to one another is only as scary as you make it. Even if you didn’t win the in-law lottery, as I did, you can still put a little extra effort into making the first meeting pleasant and you might just be surprised by how well everyone gets along.
* * *
3
MONEY MATTERS
Navigating the wedding budget. This is most likely the first time you’ll consider eloping
You can’t put a price tag on love…but don’t be surprised if your mom tries to.
ELIZABETH
Real talk, brides: your parents’ wedding didn’t even come close to costing as much as your wedding will. And your folks will likely exaggerate just how cheap their wedding was…a matrimonial form of “…when I was your age, I used to walk ten miles to school! In the snow! Barefoot! Carrying a set of encyclopedias!” In these cases, you could do what I did and go over your parents’ heads to grandparents or other relatives who attended their wedding. My grammy was more than happy to dispel my mom’s “$1,000 wedding” that took “one week” to plan. Still, weddings have become an industry unto themselves since our parents were putting on their love beads and getting hitched, so don’t be surprised when you have to explain that you can’t do a potluck reception at your local playground’s picnic shelter.
A few weeks after Dave and I got engaged, I called my mom. As I picked up the phone, I didn’t anticipate that our conversation would turn toward the wedding budget, an as-yet-unbroached subject. To be honest, I don’t even recall how we even started to talk about money, which was mistake number one: Dave and I should have come up with a game plan before talking numbers with anyone else.
See, I thought budget would be the one point of the wedding that wouldn’t cause any friction. And I had good reason (I thought). As we dipped our toes into the murky waters of wedding planning, my mom was always the one who came up with the most extravagant ideas.
“Where do you think we should go for our honeymoon, Mommy?”
“Oh, that’s easy. The Château Frontenac in Quebec.”
One Google session later, I opened the hotel’s website. Except it wasn’t a hotel. The word chateau should have been a clue. It was a castle. A glistening, expansive, $400-per-night-for-a-closet-with-a-twin-bedin-it castle. Hmm, so for a ten-day honeymoon, that would be…$4,000 bucks on hotel alone. Factor in airfare, a couple of nice newlywed dinners (complete with champagne) and we were looking at a honeymoon that would cost upwards of $6,000 bucks. Not too shabby.
Okay, I thought. So I guess I’m one of those lucky girls whose parents give her a platinum wedding.
I could get used to this.
A few days later: “Mommy, what do you think we should serve as our main course for dinner?”
“Oh, definitely lobster,” she replied. “With truffle oil. You need something special, but you should go with seafood because your father won’t eat any animal he would own as a pet.”
My pupils turned into little dollar signs.
“Mommy, what venues do you like for our reception?”
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“Well, there’s this resort about half an hour from our house—you should rent the whole thing out. And make sure you get the spa, too, so we can all get massages the day before!”
I liked the sound of this so much that I never stopped and reminded myself that my mother is a romance novelist. She spends her days spinning fictional tales for her heroines, sending them off to castles and lobster dinners and personal day spas without ever once having to worry about cost. Because NONE OF IT IS REAL.
She was treating our wedding like one of her books. And why shouldn’t she? We were in the idyllic, brainstorming stage of wedding planning where the sky’s the limit. I’m like one of those buxom babes whose ample bosom threatens to burst from its bodice as her open-shirted hero whisks her off into the sunset. It was only natural for my mom to mistake me for one of her characters.
But in my blissed-out, newly engaged state, I heard my mom’s over-the-top ideas and figured she was giving me clues about how much dough my parents were ready to fork over for the wedding.
My search terms on wedding planning sites began to shift. Instead of “affordable A-line” I typed in “Oscar de la Renta silk tulle ball gown.” “Seattle weddings under $3,000” became “eye-poppingly elegant Seattle wedding venues.” “How to have a wedding without flowers” was replaced by “Ten-foot centerpieces with Swarovski crystals and custom lighting.”
It was with this (okay, greedy) state of mind that I commenced planning the wedding. Again, I don’t remember how we got onto the subject, but suddenly my mom said, “Would you elope if your dad and I gave you twenty-five thousand bucks?”
Um. What?
Okay, maybe she was kidding about the (gulp) elopement idea, but did this mean $25,000 was our budget? Really?