My mom was small, quiet, holding in emotions as we shuffled into the first wedding shop. It was spring of 2010 and my wedding was a few short months away. We first chose a small boutique that was family owned. Mirrors lined the back wall opposite of the large dressing rooms. My mom had shoulder length brown hair, straight like thousands of pine needles, and glasses rested on her petite face. She wore a jacket to escape the Michigan chill. She walked in short steps because of her impaired hip and physical pain marred her every move. Today she was ready to experience something new and different. She was taking her only daughter shopping for a wedding dress. She was so reserved, holding back expectations and emotions with each breath. She took each moment as it came, holding them carefully as if not to crush a piece of precious china placed delicately in her hands.
This was new for both of us. I am the sixth kid of seven, and the only girl. Though mine would be the sixth wedding of the family, I was the first daughter bride. And we both felt the weight. The weight of our shopping history together composed mostly of frustration and angry tears. The weight that came with the fact that we sometimes shared a tense and complicated mother/daughter relationship. We worried quietly of what could happen, how things could go wrong.
I scanned through the inventory freely, only partly sure of the style I wanted. Forget the princess poof, off-white gowns or simple nightgown looking dresses. My list: a fun, strapless dress, something that felt like me. And I liked the pulled tufts on the bottom half of the dress. I picked out three heavy dresses and we carried them to the back. The store was almost empty, and Mom sat alone on a bystander’s simple plastic chair. I climbed up on the podium adorned in the first dress. I looked at myself in the mirror, my hair tied up in an athletic band, sporting my usual casual self. The milky gown made my skin look paler than it already did and I cringed. I slipped my hands across the silky gown and loved its softness but was not impressed with how I looked. I peered back at Mom while feeling underwhelmed. Her head tilted sideways and we chatted briefly. Mostly I swung to and fro, feeling the material beneath my fingers but longing to rid myself of it. I tried on another and while it looked elegant, the material felt flat and un-adorned. The next one was a beautiful mermaid shape, but still didn’t feel right on me. I would say trying on these dresses was fun, but only in the experimental way that trying anything for the first time is fun. I had never done this before.
But my mom. My mother who birthed one unique little girl into a sea of boys felt oh so differently. Her sweet face took mental pictures of her young, pale daughter adorning wedding dresses one after another. Tears gathered at her eyes and her words were few. She looked at me cautiously after each one. “Oh Kim, I am no help at all, you are just so beautiful in each one.” She was indeed no help in any fashion sense, but this is how we had always been. The only two women we knew that shopped out of pure necessity. We had always jointly hated the pursuit of necessary clothing due to season change and growth spurts. Today was different of course, we were hunting dresses worth hundreds or thousands of dollars. But today was also the same. She and I weren’t overly concerned about specifics; we were just doing what we needed to do. So we clung together with our secret bond that as mother and daughter, we would accomplish what we came for.
We left the store empty handed but with slightly more intelligence about the choices and styles than we had before. It wouldn’t take long for the work to pay off. I had my own opinions of David’s Bridal. Mainly that it was a monopoly and we had no other choice but to succumb to its forces at some point. There was hardly any other competition that we had the energy to seek out. The store was bustling with people underneath its bright lights. The dressing room was fitted for queens. The platforms in front of giant mirrors were stages to the enticing world of becoming a gorgeous bride. It was dramatic and sweeping and the energy in the place seeped into my skin. I watched small crowds of family and friends join around to view and comment and sigh loudly, touching hems as the prospect spun around daintily. This faintly intrigued me but I wasn’t dying to be on the podium. I had always been the kind of girl that ran away from these situations. I just wanted to find an affordable dress that I liked. I didn’t know the feeling that I was waiting for until it suddenly struck me.
I walked down the aisles on a mission, thumbing through the discount racks and finding nothing. I sifted through the poofy mess all around me, finding three or four options. My sister-in-law Emily was with us. We asked about sizes and more options, and the attendant mentioned ordering online. I had no interest in dragging out this ordeal beyond the storefront. We flipped over price signs, promptly moving on or peering in for a closer look. I asked myself what I liked, but didn’t really know how to answer such a simple question. I climbed into a dress under the lights. We touched it and talked and moved on to another. A smile crept onto my lips in the dressing room and a spark lit within me as I slid into the next gown. I opened the door to see the others and climbed up on the pedestal. I swished back and forth in what felt like a dress of perfection. My lips spread wide instantly and I watched my eyes sparkle like the gems on the dress. I touched the gorgeous beads sewn delicately onto the surface with a shy strip of lace lining the top of the dress, perfectly landing on my freckled skin. I wrapped my hands around the middle sash, feeling its tight band of authority splitting up the top and bottom. The tufts pulled up, scattered all over the skirt from waist to floor and I delighted in every square inch. I smiled and laughed, so enchanted, effortlessly joyous from the beads and the beauty springing forth. It was the dress. Not for any logical reason but because of the pure joy it brought.
An attendant gently set a veil on my head and it was then that the simple tears welled up. It was real. I was days away from turning twenty-one years old, and I was wearing the dress in which I would whisper the vows that would make me Mrs. Kimberly Patton.
Meanwhile, my mother Mrs. Carrel hung back, asking me again and again if I was sure. She had seen my smile and taken my picture and smiled right along with me. I had found the dress and it was obvious to me that this pursuit was complete. But the task wasn’t over yet. In plain clothes, we slowly approached the counter. My frugal mother was hesitant. Other options were mentioned as we walked over but I dismissed everything. I know she wanted me to be sure, but it took her a few minutes to feel sure herself. The dress wasn’t exactly pulled from the $99 rack. It was $1,000 and would be far more expensive than any jeans or winter coats that she had bought for me before. I knew it was a lot to ask, so I gingerly looked her in the eyes. “Mom, it’s the one. I love it and it makes me so happy. Can we please?” I knew my mother’s logic was torturing her inside. $1,000? For a one-time wear? Whatever hesitation she felt, she swallowed it. In one quick movement, she did something so loving, so full of understanding and trust in her young daughter. She pulled out her credit card. We hugged in finality, knowing my childhood was coming to an end somewhat abruptly. We had shopped together all those years in our own quirky way. We spent one last shopping trip together and I think this was the best one.
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