Counting down. 

My son, Devon, is getting married in two days. He is marrying a wonderful woman, Kristine McAllister. They met a decade ago, as freshmen in college, remained in touch throughout the years, and now … they’re ready for the big day.

          I thought it would be strange to have a child get married. I thought I would have conflicted feelings about my son growing up, complete with misty visions of the smiling baby with honey-sweet skin and a velvet-soft head who I’d held in my arms, the infant who’d put me through mothering school.  

I thought I’d fret about that adage about “A son’s a son until he takes a wife; a daughter’s a daughter all of her life.” I’ve always hated that saying, by the way, and recoiled at the sexism inherent in it. Still do.

I also worried about getting a daughter-in-law. I watched some of my friends struggle with theirs, and I worried.

          Now that the time is here, none of these things is coming true. Devon’s marriage feels absolutely right. He is ready. He is mature. He’s found the love of his life. And, one thing is certain: it’s far worse to have a child who doesn’t grow up than one who does. No conflict here. I’m thrilled.

          I also am thrilled about getting a daughter-in-law. Kristine is a delight. She is fun and has a wicked sense of humor. I knew she’d fit well into our family once when we were discussing a murderer who had walked into a church service and shot the bishop. Straightfaced, she said, “Couldn’t he have waited until after the service?”

Kristine is confident and is absolutely her own person. I asked her one time if she’d ever gone on a diet. (Disclaimer: she’s willowy and thin and does not need to diet. It was just a passing question.) Her reply: “I tried it once and I didn’t like it, so I’ve never done it again.” A young woman secure enough not to diet? That is someone who’s comfortable in her own skin.

So, casting these insecurities aside, I’ve been able to focus on the important details of the wedding. Finding a dress that doesn’t drown me in matronly chiffon. Choosing the right desserts for the wedding luncheon (chocolate? lemon? Yes!). Making travel plans (fly or drive?).   

And now we’re ready to go. We are ready for a trip from Colorado to Utah. Devon and Kristine are getting ready for the journey of a lifetime. 

Exceptional Young Men

I never thought my adult children would live with me for more than a few months, or perhaps a summer home between semesters. But right now, two live with me. All the time. Indefinitely.

Ethan, my musician son, has gone back to school after realizing he wanted to make consistent money, or needed a better job to earn money to go back to graduate school, and this included a better job. Devon has just graduated from college and is now looking for a job.

There are pros and cons to having them here. I get annoyed when I go to take a bath, and dirty towels have been haphazardly tossed on the floor and the tub is soap-scummy. I worry more about them than I do when they're not here. But in truth, I enjoy having them here. I like taking walks with them and tossing around ideas about religion and politics and relationships. I like asking them to cook dinner - and they do it. I like hugging them and talking in silly voices and sharing a thousand family jokes with them.

They're also helpful. They walk the dog and do the dishes. They fix the computer. They run to the store for mushrooms or milk.

They also help out with Mom. My octogenarian mother lives with me. Her health is slowly, miserably failing her. My calendar includes lots of doctor visits for her. Lots of procedures and lab tests. She is at that stage of life where one's social life becomes medical providers and hospital rooms.

Ethan and Devon are good to their grandmother. My sister recently told me they are "exceptional young men" because they don't complain about helping to take care of her. At first I agreed, secretly proud to have raised "exceptional young men."

The more I thought about it, I decided there's something wrong when it's exceptional to help someone without complaining. Shouldn't that be the norm?

Of course, it isn't. It's hard to be helpful and kind. It's hard to do it cheerfully and without at least a little resentment, even if it's hidden away where nobody sees.

If my sons are resentful, they hide it well. They have never complained when asked to take Grandma the doctor or push her wheelchair or tidy up her house. (And this includes the son, Bryce, who does not live with me.) Never. For this I am grateful. So maybe I won't complain so much about the towels littering the bathroom floor.