ROGERS: Mother-of-the-bride duties require more than money

Skimming my copy of "The Knot Guide for the Mother of the Bride," it became painfully clear that despite my genetic connection to my daughter, I was woefully unqualified for full mother-of-the-bride duties.

I had already broken what author Carley Roney describes as "the rules of engagement." Roney insists there's a "noncommittal tactic" to spreading the engagement news, that one must be careful before notifying others of the nuptial news. Real mothers-of-the-bride – or MOBs – communicate carefully in order to avoid hurt feelings later. MOBs are supposed to share the news with a select few and let word of mouth "take its natural course."

Instead, I wrote a column two weeks ago announcing the news – an MOB epic fail.

When my daughter announced her beloved had popped the question, I thought of bike tires and repair kits. When she rattled off the wedding plan list, I suggested she elope with Beloved Brad and spend the cash on a fantastic honeymoon instead of a sit-down dinner for 150 people.

"You guys could spend a month in Europe for that kind of cash. The ‘rents could throw you a reception after your trip. You'd still get a bounty of kitchen appliances, and you'd get to chill in Paris."

My good-natured suggestion was an MOB assault on her dream.

"I want the wedding, Mom," she said, "I want to celebrate our love with everyone we care about."

"A toaster and a month in Europe with the man you love?" I asked.

"Dancing with grandpa at a great party," she replied.

"Serious time with all that art in Paris, chillin' with your love monkey, walking the Seine at dusk?"

"Nope. I want the party. I want everyone to see how happy we are and to be there when we get married."

I winced. To me, love and marriage have been what happens between the awkward first date and the restraining order. This makes it difficult for me to fully appreciate her premarital bliss.

As she contemplates bridal registries, I'm tempted to suggest she pick two of everything to make it easier to divvy up the good stuff during property settlement negotiations.

While she pictures two becoming one, I'm worrying about her individual identity becoming subsumed by couplehood.

While she's speaking of a love that lasts, that creates a family, I'm thinking of The Sopranos-style therapy sessions.

I worry – a lot – about the emphasis placed on the wedding instead of on the marriage, that we'll somehow forget to talk about her partnership with Brad as much as we talk about centerpieces and tablescapes.

But these personal concerns must be set aside. My MOB responsibilities come first. My primary charge is to help the bride bring her dream to fruition, to help her establish a married life and to woo our friends and relatives to Wisconsin for a wedding.

Unfortunately, planning a wedding is a lot like herding feral cats into a bathtub. You have to be armored and agile enough to handle anything. As a single mother in college, I can handle the dexterity issues, but my checkbook provides insufficient funds for the sort of easy answers one can buy for all wedding questions. Not even MacGyver could save the special day, even if all he had was a ballpoint pen and a rubber chicken.

Since my daughter announced her engagement, I've had a recurring nightmare: We get to the reception hall, and all I've got is a case of Cold Duck, a dozen cans of Easy Cheese and several boxes of saltine crackers.

Back in the day, when I was shiny and newly 21, this would have been the beginning of a great party. Now that I'm weathered, reflecting the dull finish of adult responsibility, this represents absolute social disaster.

Overwhelmed, underfunded and the MOB kingpin of this disorganization, I've got to encourage family loyalty, stake our claim to bridal territories, and motivate businesses to play along. It's difficult work, particularly when the bridal industry gets away with murder.

According to the Association of Wedding Professionals, there were 2,162,000 weddings in the United States in 2008. Since 2006, couples and their families have spent an estimated $86 billion on their weddings. That's a lot of tulle, beads, bubbles and brie.

I don't know how in the world I'm going to make my daughter's dreams come true on a graduate TA stipend, but being an MOB means insulating the bride from those kinds of concerns. So while my daughter was visiting me over fall break, we did the only thing I could think to do: We went dress shopping.

When we arrived at the store, waded into a sea of satin, lace and tulle, we found ourselves among other hopeful brides and their overwhelmed MOBsters.

MOBs carried heavy dresses to fitting rooms, while salesclerks helped with laces, buttons and zippers. The din of feminine chatter, the delighted "oohs" and "ahhs" as young brides found their dresses, surprised me. It was a delightful noise, making the tradition of an older generation helping a younger one very real to me. I forgot all my feminist theories about marriage and ownership.

Instead, I watched my daughter find the dress she wanted and tried not to cry. When she stood in front of the three-way mirror, a silence washed over everyone. She looked beautiful in a classic ivory dress, simple and understated, reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy's dress, without all the hallmarks of old money.

Standing there, looking beautiful, she said, "I can't wait to marry Brad. We're going to be a great old couple, all wrinkled, my big bifocals and his pants pulled up too high."

I smiled.

"Mom, we're going to make a family and have lots of kids, grandkids and noise. That's all I want."

That's when I realized my MOB duties weren't about money. They wouldn't end when the happy couple waltzed off on their honeymoon.

To make her marriage dream happen, to see her get everything I didn't, would mean making a commitment to her, to Beloved Brad and to their life together. The enormity of their love humbled me, something that Carley Roney's book didn't have a chapter dedicated to.

"Do you think we can do it?" she asked.

I smiled, tears welling in my eyes. "I do."

Erica F. Rogers is a fourth-year doctoral English major. Reach her at ericarogers@dailynebraskan.com.