FRANCESCA SEGRÈ

Sept. 30, 2002

Washington Post, Style Plus

by Francesca Segrè

Was the perfect wedding dress out there? Could it be altered in time? My mom and I were giggling, giddy, and anxious as we discreetly ducked into the bridal salon. A good-natured salesgirl asked me if I’d already chosen a gown. She asked my mom what kind of "mother of the bride dress" she had in mind.

"I’m the bride," my mother leaned in and whispered, an unfamiliar teenage excitement teeming in her voice. The young woman offered a confused, apologetic smile and directed us to the gowns.

Shoulder to shoulder with other mother-daughter pairs, we began searching through the racks of white chiffon, lace, and silk. As my mom pulled dresses off the hangers and held them against her, I realized that even the most experienced brides now find it hard to resist the tempting wedding marketing machine that sucks in naive brides. My mom, who had raised me on her ultra-feminist, intellectual, liberal values had been consulting me about colors, corsages, and caterers since the day of her engagement. The questions were bewildering considering that my parents set an entirely different example back in 1967 when they eloped. They put the dog in the convertible in Berkeley, CA, hopped in, drove to Reno, and exchanged vows in the most private of ceremonies. Only the dog and a nearby vagrant bore witness.

As my mom pulled the dressing room curtain closed, I took my place on the couch sandwiched between mothers of brides. We all watched dutifully as the brides emerged from the fitting rooms and pirouetted gowns before us. I wondered what I might wear for the nuptial night and pondered the existence of a "daughter of the bride" dress section. Might "daughters of the bride" become so common that they eclipse the role of "mother of the bride?"

The bridal salons don’t have explicit "daughter of the bride" sections, yet. But if my experience was any indication, there is plenty of demand. According to the online wedding site, The Knot, the U.S. wedding industry generates about $70 billion in retail sales every year. Tap the couple’s children, and watch sales multiply. I shopped for months trying to find an "appropriate" dress for the wedding. And, without any "daughter of the bride" protocol pamphlet to reference, I ended up buying 5 dresses hoping one might work.

It soon became apparent that the responsibilities usually reserved for the "Mother of the Bride," were now mine. None of my grandparents are living. While this role reversal is somewhat rare, it is becoming increasingly common. Bride Again magazine says that 43% of all marriages are a remarriage for either the bride or the groom. Pamela Hill Nettleton, author of the book, Getting Married When It’s Not Your First Time: An Etiquette Guide and Wedding Planner, agrees the number of second weddings is rising. But she also says, "many people are getting married for the first time at a later stage in their lives." While I, like much of the younger generation, may be postponing tying the knot, it doesn’t necessarily mean we’re inexperienced when it comes to weddings. At age 29, I’ve walked down the aisle a half dozen times. I am a highly experienced bridesmaid.

But all that experience did not prepare me for the conundrum I would face in yet another small San Francisco bridal boutique. My mother-the-bride finally found a raw silk gown with a corseted top. It was sophisticated and elegant. It was also light pink. The pastel shade was more appropriate for a senior prom than a senior wedding. But my mom had been acting like a schoolgirl in love since she met Marvin and the color didn’t seem wholly inappropriate. When my mom looked to me (dressed head to toe in New York black) for advice, I counseled her to take time and get the color she wanted. Etiquette expert Elizabeth Post would probably agree. In her book, Emily Post on Second Weddings, Post gives today's second-time bride the go-ahead to wear white, "White is now considered symbolic of joy rather than virginity." My mom decided on ivory, but it had nothing to do with proper etiquette. "You might want to wear this when you get married," she said gracefully twisting tradition. I balked. "Try on the dress," she insisted. I refused. Within minutes I found myself staring into the mirror in a long bridal gown utterly perplexed. Even though she was the bride, I was still the daughter.

One of the nice things about navigating the uncharted protocol of the "daughter of the bride" is liberty in choosing responsibilities. I graciously helped plan the ceremony and choose music. I signed off on invitation designs. Gratefully, as "daughter of the bride," I avoided what a "mother of the bride" might feel obligated to address, namely family planning. We did not need to talk about sex. Although she hinted at a few things, I felt more comfortable leaving her on her own in this department.

The day before the wedding, my mom began to hyperventilate. I reassured her there was nothing to worry about. These were normal pre-wedding jitters. I had seen this before. Everything would be just fine. I made a salad and encouraged her to eat to help calm her nerves. I advised her on jewelry and accessories. I sat her down on the toilet seat in the bathroom and showed her how to apply makeup.

The day of the wedding she was so nervous, she could barely hold a conversation. While driving her to the ceremony site, I tried to distract her with stories of my colorful dating life in Manhattan. We laughed about the arrogant bankers, neurotic doctors, and tortured artists I had met. We marveled at how she and her husband to be, both widowed, and both approaching their sixth decade, fell in love.

Finally, after months of preparation, the moment came. It was late on a cool California afternoon. The guests, many with white hair, peered over their glasses and waited eagerly in the garden to witness the celebration of this new beginning. The string quartet began. My brothers, my step sister-to-be, and I, all single, and all of marrying age, assembled to walk our parents down the aisle. First, Amanda walked the groom, her father, down the aisle. He, in his tuxedo, moved with the confidence of experience. She, wearing her mother’s dress, fell in step with her father. Then I, in a printed, floral, cocktail dress, linked arms with my younger brother, followed their path. At last, my mother appeared. My older brother guided her steadily toward the Chuppah, the Jewish wedding canopy. She was radiant, youthful, and walked with the certainty of a mother. The rabbi began speaking, and my brothers and I looked at each other. We silently, simultaneously, wished our mother a happy future full of love and fulfillment. A fleeting tinge of parental concern swept over, and suddenly it was done. We had married her off.