The Wedding: Part 2

Long ago, I promised to write about how Patrick’s wedding felt to me. Well, ok. Here I go…

The timeline of my life holds no momentous job changes or career accomplishments. My lifeline is family. I did not always think it would be this way. I was kissing 30 and planning to be some power suit lawyer, balancing Steve’s career chaos with a steady job and income. Then I was overly affectionate in an unguarded moment, trying to ease Steve into a necktie for my sister Marie’s wedding. Pat was the by-product of my constant efforts to tame Steve. I didn’t know 27 years ago that my life had made a giant U turn, but there it was, plain as day. And as Robert Frost said, the road I took has made all the difference.


The day Patrick pushed into the world was the beginning of my rich adult life. Having a child taught me how hard my parents worked, and how relentless the demands of family are. It amplified my love for them, because I could understand how persistently they had to hold back the worry about our health, their finances, and even the Cold War future- just to get us from day to day. No one knows the aching joy and inherent terror of life as well as parents. When Pat joined Steve and me, life was less something to play at, and more something to work for. Steve was a little late to thisequation, mind you, because he had Jack Daniels as a family member. When Pat showed his ability to recount his Dad’s exploits, tilting the power in the father-son equation, Steve ditched the bottle and became the Guardian. Once again, Pat commandeered a U-turn.
I am a good mother. It’s a lucky thing, too, because I have little else on my resume besides daughter, sister, wife, mother, and friend. I work at these things, make plenty of mistakes, and then try to remedy them. Since Pat was the first of my boys, I was over-protective, over-indulgent and yet oblivious to any problems with him. When he didn’t talk until almost 3 years of age (fierce ear infections, perforated eardrums, never a tear) I was blissfully unaware. He was perfect to me. His tantrum ability was legendary but creative. He dived out of a high chair to protest nuts on a sundae. He scribbled on every square inch of his new carpeting with Prell shampoo to resist his transfer to a Big Boy bed. He was always dramatic and creative.


Pat is whip-smart, and he uses his brain to get his way. He loves to argue. I once enrolled him in an anger management regimen with a counselor. He demanded that the man givehim an IQ test. He tookit, and the counselor remarked that Pat’s IQ was higher than his own. When I picked him up, he announced that I was owed a rebate, as it would be foolish to be counseled by someone less bright. He won that round. He taught his brothers many skills, for good and for evil.

Accompanying his rebellious head is a kind and gentle heart. He gave his heart to a woman who matches him intellectually, and guides him to be his best self. She is patient and idealistic. She teaches in a bi-lingual school, and she nurtures her students, and fertilizes their dreams. Rachel is the daughter I dreamed of having, and I honor Pat for scouting her and winning her. As his mom, I can attest to the work he requires, as well as the gifts he brings. The wedding was a joyous counterpoint to Pat’s birth: all our years of nuzzling and nagging have led him to this wonderful new life. There were no tears.


I have slumped a little since the wedding, because it was such a pinnacle for me. I miss the excitement of the plans. I miss Pat and Rachel. The writer’s strike has provided a harsh perspective for Patrick, and of course, I worry. I am proud of his alternative wage earning efforts, and his pragmatic re-evaluation of his career path. I honor Rachel for her steadfast support. I love her, too.

I also marvel at how the time has slipped away. I can close my eyes and see his newborn fingers closing around my pointer finger. I can remember how he nestled in between us and watched Winnie the Poo every morning. I remember that he did not look back when he toddled into kindergarten, and that I took half a Xanax when I deposited him at Northwestern so that I wouldn’t blubber. I remember moving him to an apartment in Evanston on September 12th, 2001, trying to assure him that life always goes on. And so it did.

When I watched my son, with incandescent love, watch his bride move toward him, I was not jealous or sad. I was elated that my highest achievement-family- was one that Pat wished to carry on, and that he had brought such a wondrous blessing, Rachel, into our expanding circle. It was a day that exceeded my dreams. There will be more, I am sure.