This mother of the groom wants to brag

My son is getting married tomorrow, and I just want to brag a little.

My mother-of-the-groom dress has pockets.

I know, right? I can feel your envy from here.

Picture it. The two lovebirds are at the altar, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes, reciting their sure-to-be-unforgettable vows. Tears threaten to cascade down my cheeks. Are my tissues hidden in my purse, where I have to waste precious seconds to dig them out? Or held in my hand, turning into a soggy mass of pulp in tomorrow’s expected humidity? No, at this critical moment, I can dip into my pocket and discreetly pull out one or two (or twelve) tissues to gently dab away the tears of happiness.

I have an answer of what to do with my phone during the reception, too. Maneuvering the room with a drink in one hand and my phone in the other prevents any handshaking or hugs. There is the timeless option of keeping my phone in my bra, but then I have definitely moved into little old lady territory. If I keep it in my clutch, then I have to carry my purse around with me all evening or run back to my table at every photo op opportunity. Not happening. Now, I simply set my drink on the nearest table, whip out my phone from my pocket and capture the moment. Then pop it back in my pocket and move on to the next happy guest.

The dress has a little poof to it, so I don’t have to worry about my slim silhouette being distorted by bulky objects in my pockets. Win/win.

Of course, I jest to hide the multitude of emotions this mother of the groom is feeling. This is my baby, after all. The youngest. Devon. The Dev Man. The Dev Meister. The Dev-A-Roonie. (There was a span of time as a toddler when he was Devon, The Demon Child, but the less said about that, the better.)

This is the child who used to rollerblade in the driveway in his dinosaur Halloween costume. Even though he wasn’t a big burly guy, he was the captain of his hockey and lacrosse teams due to sheer tenacity and drive.

His charm is legendary. We spent tons of time at hockey rinks. While his brothers were playing, he would mooch money for snacks and arcade games not only from his mom and dad, but from the other parents as well.

He is also very literal. I hope his bride Deema has gone over the vows with a fine-tooth comb, because if there are loopholes, he will exploit them. In middle school, he had an issue with completing homework. His teacher sent me notes from time to time to keep me posted. He occasionally “forgot” to give them to me, so the teacher began to request that I sign the notes and send them back to her.

One day, he came home from school, and I asked him, “Do you have a note from your teacher for me to sign?”

“No,” he answered.

At the next parent/teacher conference, the teacher asked about the latest note she had sent. I had to admit I didn’t know anything about it.

When questioned about this later, Devon produced the note from his backpack.

I said, “Why didn’t you give this to me when I asked?”

“You asked if I had any notes for you to sign,” he responded. “This one didn’t need to be signed.”

Good luck, Deema!

I could go on forever with Devon stories. Tomorrow night, I will harangue anyone within hearing distance: family, friends, waiters, strangers walking past on the Detroit Riverwalk. The way I feel about it, if I can’t embarrass him at his wedding, when can I? Payback is sweet.

Tissues and lipstick in one pocket, phone in the other. Emotions rioting just under the surface. I’m ready.