by Patricia Sicilia

Created on: May 19, 2008

Mother of the Bride Dress

As I triaged the wedding shower invitations that pour in during April and May, I remembered the joys and agonies of planning my own daughter's wedding.

Held in her college town, which was also the hometown of the groom, and over 200 miles away , it was particularly stressful and complicated. But I had pictured that day since the moment the doctor said "It's a girl," and I was determined that everything be perfect, including me.

While shopping for just the right "Mother of the Bride" gown, I was dismayed to discover that I had turned into a plump, 43-year-old woman. Not that I wanted to outshine the bride, as if I ever could. I knew her natural beauty and that ivory satin and pearl-encrusted portrait-collared gown would fill that day with a floating, ethereal vision and no one would notice anything else.

But for myself, I wanted to look and feel as good as possible. I embarked on a frenzy of living on water and lettuce. My mother and I searched bridal shops in two states for weeks. I could not believe the hideous dresses that were being presented to me - bright lime greens, dark purples and winey reds. Not only were the colors abhorrent, but the styles were baggy, matronly atrocities.

My daughter may have chosen what I considered at the time unconventional black-and-white attendant's gowns, but the Mother of the Bride wears pink, and that's it, I kept insisting. The beehived, bespeckled saleswomen advised me that I was far too fair to wear pastels. Nonsense, I replied. I looked great in pastels and I was adamant. And I wanted something that swirled when I danced!

Totally frustrated, I was almost resigned to wearing the designer pink suit I already owned and had only worn once.

But, finally, in a little shop in Haddonfield, New Jersey, I was shown one of those dresses that, when viewed on the hangar, I just knew wouldn't do, but mother insisted I try it on. A thigh-length beaded and sequined peach lace jacket overlayed a flowing, flapper-style, low-waisted cocktail length slip dress. I stepped out of the dressing room and announced, "This is the one." Peach was close enough!

The day arrived in late September, and as my husband and I dressed in our room at the Happy Valley Motor Inn, I fretted over my hair, make-up and general appearance. My water diet had been somewhat successful, but a panel had still had to be added to the dress. My husband was quickly decked out in his Father of the Bride tux (men have it so easy at weddings, don't they?),

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