Standing Up

The phone rings and a voice says, "Hello Mom." Then there's a giggle, maybe multiples. I realize that she has another mother, the real one. I'm the 'Second Mom.' Vanessa, AKA Nessie, isn't my daughter although she spent considerable time at our house as a teen-ager. In those days, she and Caitlin were nearly inseparable. Overnight visits, many meals and snacks, as well as indeterminable phone calls kept them close. Later, the University of California campuses at Santa Cruz and Davis are near enough so that their bond remains intact. After college graduation, they found jobs and a new state beckoned Caitlin. Cell phones, Facebook, and texting replaced former means of communicating. Their lives became more complex, filled with new friends and for each, a mate.

I really don't know if their teen-age selves ever discussed desirable characteristics of potential husbands or the subject of marriage someday. These two girls/women are smart, independent, and imbued with tremendous spirit. It's more likely that they generally do what they want rather than what might be expected of them.

Five years ago, Caitlin announced her engagement via a phone call as her dad and I sat at our table eating dinner. We listened to our elated daughter, completely confident about her marital decision.

Some years later, there's a similar call from Vanessa who shares her excitement about marrying Josh. Early in 2012, a 'Save the Date' card arrives, citing the ceremony planned for November 10th. Caitlin will be a bridesmaid.

As the Second Mom, I have no duties except to attend the wedding. As Caitlin's mom, I am the designated driver for both the rehearsal
and the wedding itself.

Late on a blustery Saturday afternoon, with the spare sun fading and the outside temperature dropping precipitously, slightly uncomfortable guests gather in front of a flower draped trellis and await the bride.

The groom's father, an ordained Presbyterian minister, performs the ceremony.
Three longtime lady friends, shivering in their navy frocks, stand to the side, blue hydrangeas in hand. Directly opposite, three suitably attired young men support their friend, the groom.

Though brief, the service is intensely personal, deeply meaningful to the young couple. A lot of smiling, a few tears, a bit of laughter and very soon the wedding party is exiting the scene.

Grateful to return to the country club lobby, guests mingle and enjoy hors d'oeuvres. Dinner is served attentively while family and friends linger at various tables to chat, hug, catch up on the latest news. Several high school classmates are among the guests. I'm reminded of the marvelous mixture of students who shared so many years together. Vanessa and Karla are Filipino and speak fluent Tagalog. Mircea moved to the desert from Romania as an eight-year-old. Shalini's family is from India. These young adults are part of an amazingly rich panoply of cultures which greatly enhanced Caitlin's childhood and her educational experiences.

Dancing dominates the evening.

The bride's sprightly grandmother, a minute little lady, steps onto the dance floor. The ring bearer and his younger sister, the flower girl, show off their impressive juvenile moves. The new husband and wife barely move as they command the space, lost in a world of their own.

I'm almost teary when I see Vanessa's mom, the bride and her brother locked together, swaying gently and talking softly.

Caitlin says I owe her a dance. She reminds me that I broke my toe at her wedding, thus eliminating any possibility of dancing on that glorious day. I respond that I don't dance. Can't. Never learned how. My mind shifts to a long ago scene when a girlfriend tried to teach teen-age me to dance utilizing a towel to help me with the rhythm and coax my not-so-agile body to move accordingly. She, and I, failed miserably. I quit dancing altogether.

More than a half century later, undeterred by my protests, Caitlin enlists the aid of Mircea, Shali, and Jen to get me from my chair to the floor. I'm politely told that I don't need to know 'how' to dance, I just dance. I'm not convinced at all and remain stubbornly in my seat. As the evening's festivities wane, Caitlin and I are at the edge of the dance floor. She's captures me. The DJ plays You Are My Sunshine. I begin to sing quite badly. She dances effortlessly and shares the lyrics with me. I move just the slightest. "You're dancing, Mom." she says, using her special Disneyland voice. I am also crying. It's a magical moment, one which I'll relive many times as I sigh deeply with emotion. I'm grateful for her persistence but most of all, for her existence.

Blisters crowd Caitlin's feet. Heels aren't kind or comfortable and dancing for hours only increases the pain. I know her smile very well and I'm confident that she's enjoyed the evening. With very little cajoling, I agree to stop at In 'n' Out on the way home for a post-nuptials fix. It's a fitting ending to a memorable day.

I'm pleased that Caitlin has been standing up with Vanessa for a long time.