My step-son is getting married next fall.
At the ripe old age of twenty-one.
To the girl he's been dating since he was fifteen.
A stable sort, my step-son. A good boy man.

Their marriage will probably be fine. Two worthy, if unimaginative, sorts doing what is right and necessary day by day, with enough good will and mutual respect to keep it going in a companionable way. For years. They may not be burning up the world with passion, but they're solid, kindly, grounded.

I am dreading the wedding.

Just dreading it.

Where shall I start?

With the ex-wife's alcoholic dad? No, not likely to be a problem, since when he's in his cups he (reputably, I've never met the man) gets quiet.

Unlike the ex-wife's mother, who, when in her cups gets loud and aggressive. Usually the aggression is directed against her husband. (Hence his quiet retreat to the friendly haze of alcohol, one surmises.)

Though of course, knowing the conservative bent of the happy couple, the reception could well be dry. Where will that leave them?

With the ex-wife? Maybe. She's been known to go off the deep end at weddings, but since she's recently remarried and, so we hear, very happy, perhaps her general good feeling about life will translate to good behaviour. It may, however, translate to too much bonhomie -- barbed, of course -- directed our way. This has been known to happen, and it is not comfortable. She is a woman who, if I saw her on a bus, I'd sit as far from as possible, fearing the possibility of a loud an inappropriate conversation.

She usually delivers.

So there's that.

It could be the ex-wife's SIL, who hates, hates, hates my husband. Because he was supposed to be a failure, and he didn't fail. Instead, by her standards, she did. Unhappy marriage, stalled career, no publications, no children. And she, like all the womenfolk in her family, is loud and aggressive.

Then there's the ex-wife's brother, who, unlike his dad, gets loud and aggressive when in his cups.

There's my eldest step-daughter, who has very little control over her tongue or her temper. Less when she's drunk. Which is mostly. She also hates her dad. We're not quite sure why. Even her siblings are not sure why. Apparently, he 'ruined her life'. Her ruined life has nothing to do with the alcohol, or course, nor of her chronic abuse of her mild-mannered boyfriend. (Verbal, emotional, and physical. She's a big girl.) When she's angry, which is mostly when she's drunk (which is mostly), she is not just loud, she SCREAMS. She can be heard blocks away.

God, I hope it's a dry reception!

And all those people? The ones who like being angry, who rage and scream, make barbed comments, delight in unkindnesses small and large?

They loathe my husband, for divorcing their daughter/sister/mother. Even though it's been 15 years. Even though she's much happier now. Because they like to have someone to loathe. Pouring contempt on people is fun, fun, fun.

And me? They've never met me, but I hear, through the endlessly un-self-censored grapevine of my step-children, that they hate me. They're curious about the bitch "he" ended up with, the one who (despite the year and a half gap) "broke up" their daughter/sister's "perfectly good" marriage.

Oh, goody.

"Bracing" does not begin to describe what I'll need to get through this ordeal.

god

I have a confession. Few people know this of me - Matthew, my kids, Sophie. That's about it. Nothing I'm ashamed of, but I fear the reaction. But now I'm about to tell you all...

I joined Weight Watchers.

Almost three months ago.

I'm self-conscious about it because I am not fat. Never have been. I fear the ridicule. In fact, I got it, indirectly, when a neighbour heard from one of my kids (thanks, kiddo) that I'd joined. Then the neighbour told a friend. The friend, apparently, said,

"WHAT? She's a STICK!"

Which, given that I was, at 154 pounds on my 5'5" frame, juuust barely into the 'overweight' category, is simply not true. That I carry my weight well is not in question: I know how to dress and I have decent posture. But "stick"? When I'm a 34D (lately, 36D), and hips to match? Um, no...

(Said friend is gay. Perhaps he doesn't look at women overmuch?)

But I've never been heavily overweight. Most of my life I've been slim.

And that's just it. Most of my life I've been slim. Most of my life, without any effort at all, I have maintained an easy 120 - 123 pounds. Most of my life, I have had a body mass index of 20-ish. Without any effort, without any thought.

When, about 10 years ago, I noticed a few pounds sliding on, I didn't worry overmuch. I was in my late thirties, a little weight gain is to be expected, and I was far from overweight. Except that the weight just kept slipping on. And on. And on some more.

Until I kinda wanted it to stop, you know?

I may have mentioned my family before, but every last one of'em is fat. Not just fat, obese. Most of them are not just obese, they're morbidly obese.

Morbidly. As in, so overweight it's a serious threat to their health. My sister cannot walk across a room without wheezing, and, at only 45, has arthritis in her poor overburdened knees. My brother has to sleep with a CPAP machine lest he stop breathing entirely in the night, entirely due to excessive weight pressing on airways. My mother has had two heart attacks, my uncle has had one. My grandmother suffered high blood pressure for years before her death.

It's not pretty, this kind of obesity.

And the pounds kept sliding on to me, despite my efforts to prevent it. Until, at 154 pounds, a mere 3 or so pounds into the official 'overweight', I had to do something.

And just as I'd reached that decision, a neighbour told me she'd begun attending Weight Watchers - and that the meetings were held only three or four blocks from my house.

I recognize Destiny when it hits me on the head with a brick.

Off I went. In three months, I have lost close to 15 pounds. I want to lose another 10 or so. I'll be heavier than I was at 24, but that's okay. Because I'm not 24 any more. But neither will I be following the rest of my gene pool, submerged at the bottom of the deep end and wondering why they're having trouble breathing...

What this program has done is give me a liveable framework by which to evaluate and structure my eating. I want that glass of wine? Sure - but not those cookies, too. I don't wonder, I know how much is too much. It takes a little more thought than in my thoughtless youth, but not a whole lot. It takes a little self-discipline, and I'm discovering I had more than I thought.

I am, once again, just about the size and shape I like to be. And I know that in another couple of months, I'll be there. And I'll stay there.

Phew.

Phone calls in the small hours are never a good thing.

My mother has been admitted to hospital due to a possible heart attack. She had one last year, following surgery. Another is always a possiblity.

At first all seemed well. Tests indicated that no, there'd been no attack. The chemical they look for was absent. Bloodwork was perfectly normal. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. Mum will probably be home later that day.

More bloodwork that afternoon, however, showed signs that a heart attack might be immanent. Suddenly, the heart attack chemical, whatever it might be, was there. Not a lot, but there'd been none before. Mum would stay in overnight for observation. Everyone moves into a state of mild alert.

That evening, her blood presssure starts popping up and down. This is the thing that had me up in the small hours, worrying. When vital signs aren't stable, nothing can be relied upon. I am now in a state of red alert.

You all recall that I'm getting married soon?

With the first call, we wondered if mum could attend the wedding. With the second call, we decided she wouldn't. "That's okay," says mum. "I'll come and visit as soon as I can afterwards." I'm disappointed, but we're within days, now. The deed is almost done.

But now, in the small, dark hours of the morning, my mind is filled with dire possibilities. If she doesn't stabilize? If they can't control the blood pressure? If this attack is worse than the last one? The decision is clear: if mum is in serious danger, I will cancel the wedding. Obviously.

The wedding that was years in the making. The wedding that was so very difficult for me to accept without panic.

But my mother could be dying. There is no question.

By dawn, I am resolute. Calm, decided. I will call the hospital, speak to the nurse in charge of my mother's case.

I have to wait till after the morning shift change. I rehearse in my mind the words. I am clear. I am at peace. I will seek the information I need to make the decision.

"Hello, this is LauraA, Mrs. V's daughter. I was wondering how she's doing this morning?"

I can picture the woman behind the voice. She's of average height, broad and soft. She's mostly grey, there are wrinkles around her eyes which speak of motherly compassion. Her voice has a warm, friendly down-east twang. Cape Breton, perhaps? If she's from The Rock, she's been in Ontario a lot of years. But it's homely and comforting, her voice.

The voice is reassuring. Mum has had a good night. Her blood pressure has stabilized, the blood tests are now all normal. She's alert and in good spirits, moving about comfortably. Relief washes through me. Nonetheless, I need to ask the question. I have my script, I know what I will say, with compassionate and calm resolution.

"That's good to hear. Here's my situation: I'm supposed to be getting married this weekend, and I was wondering if -"

and suddenly my voice is out of control, soaring skyward, as sobs shake me -

"I should cancel the we-eh-eh-eh-eh-ding?"

You understand that it is not the possibility of cancelling the wedding that is causing my distress. It is the fact that I am making concrete plans that pivot on the possibility of my mother's immanent demise. If this woman says I should cancel, it means I may realistically lose my mother in a matter of days. All my rehearsing and resolution melt in a pool of tears.

The nurse's response is immediate and patently sincere.

"Oh, NO! You mustn't do that! It would be terribly upsetting to your mother!"

'Probably give her a heart attack' almost pops out of my mouth. I bite back a hysterical giggle.

Later, my sister confirms the nurse's words. "Mum was saying yesterday, 'Goodness, I hope Laura doesn't do something silly like cancel the wedding'."

So, we're all settled. I will have my wedding this weekend, which mum will not be able to attend. Nor my sister, who will stay close, just in case. They will visit me as soon as mum is able to travel.

Physically tired from my sleepless nights and wearily worn to my last frayed nerve, I decide to take a restoring evening walk by the river. I've always loved to walk by the path, see the river in its moods and colours. In the evening, you're likely to see muskrats, be serenaded by peeps and croaks. It's therapy.

Bekah asks to join me. She's generally a companionable little thing, so we set off together. We chat quietly, idly, then she begins to worry about the state of her face. She's thirteen, and her complexion is becoming a focus of concern. There are tears in her eyes. It's things like this that confirm the solidly "child" status of a teen. The poor girl is in true distress. Nothing like having a child around to pull an adult's mind out of the grubby adult world and into the small concerns of daily life. One could argue the therapeutic value of this conversation, too.

And so I say, with loving affection.

"Sweetie, it's been a very difficult couple of days, and you know what? I simply cannot find it in my heart right now to care about pimples."

Good mothering involves giving your child the Larger Picture. We can call it Reality Therapy.