The Sister of the Groom

Home is place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

Growing up is hard. Most of us face adulthood with trepidation and suspicion. Justifiably so. As one of my students once told me, “being responsible sucks.” Or wait, maybe that was my husband?

When Son #1 decided to get married, he had the good sense to pick a stellar girl who was already well down the road to adulthood. She was from Arizona, so they married in the Mesa Temple (which endeared her to me as that’s where my parents had been sealed). Her family sponsored a formal reception in Snowflake, and Son #1 decided a more relaxed gathering in Kearns was how he wanted to celebrate. That fit my budget and my entertaining skills (which were limited) very nicely, so we had a picnic on the church property down the hill from our house. As I recall, the bride and groom wore denim with white shirts as a nod to convention.

I have a large extended family, many of whom had to travel, bless them, to get to the event. The morning before the picnic, my mom, my sister, Daughter #1, my grandmother, and assorted cousins prepped food, assembled paper products, loaded outdoor tablecloths and centerpieces, and filled ice chests with drinks and yummy desserts—all made by the slew of excellent cooks in the family. We drafted my sons, my brothers, and every other adult male in sight as the unpaid muscle. They set up the pavilion, unloaded tables, chairs, lights, etc., and commandeered every conveyance available to move our preparations from the house to the park.

But Daughter #2, twelve years old at the time, was having none of it. She groused at each request made of her, complained about the chaos surrounding the event, tried to sneak off to a friend’s house to hide, and generally made everyone miserable along with her. 

She had never been particularly enamored of Son #1. Once when she was five, Son #1 (under some duress from his parents) had been babysitting the younger kids while her dad and I went to the movie. When we got home, there was a yellow-lined notebook page torn raggedly from someone’s school supplies and taped to the front door. In a kindergartner’s scrawl was written “Mark (Son #1) for sale. $5.” Their relationship had gone downhill from there. He thought she was a whiny pest; she thought he was a bully.

Finally, about an hour before the wedding picnic was to commence–and overwhelmed by the increasing demands of the adults around her, Daughter #2 exploded. She yelled and sobbed and hurled invectives at her various brothers, especially the groom. Her screaming escalated to the point that shocked silence gradually replaced the hustle and bustle of activity in the house. One by one we all stopped and stared at her. “To your room,” I ordered. “And don’t come out until you’ve calmed down!” She disappeared, slamming the door twice, just to make sure we understood how upset she was. Another 20 minutes and the rest of us all loaded into cars for the five-minute trip down the hill to the church rec property. I don’t recall even bothering to check on Daughter #2.

It was a lovely day for a picnic. As guests arrived, we had them fill out name tags which included not just their given names, but also their relationship to the bride or groom or both. No formal line, no fancy decor, no elegant dresses—just lots of good friends, relaxed visiting, and plates filled to overflowing with comfort food. Son #1 and his bride laughed and talked and laughed some more.

Almost two hours into the picnic, Daughter #2 showed up. I was standing in a small circle which included a cluster of the strong women in my family, every one of whom had been a childhood role model—my mother, my grandmother, my sister, a couple of my aunts, and now Daughter #1, well on her way to becoming a formidable member of the group . Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Daughter #2 stalk down the hill and head in our direction. She elbowed her way into the circle with no apology and no explanation. Looking each of us in the eye, she said only two words: “Damn hormones.”

She was right. Growing up does suck.