Kids These Days

THE ONE, the only sound in the room came from me, quietly sobbing into my handkerchief. I’m all about tradition, but it’s refreshing to see some of the rigid rules for weddings thrown out the window. I have a friend whose great-niece wants her to be a bridesmaid. My mother was my Matron of Honor. Back then, people acted like I had grown a third eyebrow, but it was an act of rebellion I’ve never regretted. Surrounding yourself with those who mean the most to you should have no pre-qualifiers, and my friend would be as beautiful as any 25-year-old. I recently saw a video of a bride’s teenage brothers in flowered tuxes somersaulting down the aisle in a flurry of rose petals. It was the sweetest and most joyful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t imagine Sara’s brother in the role of flower boy, but I laugh out loud every time I think of it.

We’ve told Lewis what time to be there in his tux so that box is checked. He’s more than happy with that. Thoughts of toasts and first dances have him flustered enough. It’s an exciting time, and I must admit that I’m having a ball. Friends have been so kind to host showers and parties, and it’s gratifying to know that so many want to help us celebrate this happy occasion. As of this moment, we’re three months out and still have a lot of things to check off the list. Some will follow the etiquette guidelines. Some may throw tradition out the window. It’s a joy to know that the day will reflect the couple either way.

When May 21st, 2022, arrives, Lewis and I will celebrate our 39th anniversary, and our daughter and new son-in-law will begin their lives together. Something old, something new. We can only hope that the date will be as blessed for them as it has been for us.

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by Tara Bailey

wo things stick out in my mind when I

Tthink of my husband asking me to marry him some twenty-five years ago: 1) he was so nervous that I thought he was actually breaking up with me, and 2) he was wearing this short-sleeved, button-down shirt of various plaids stitched together like something from early nineteenth-century Gothic horror. In his defense, we were in the thick of the nineties, and Banana Republic was as much a victim of its time as anything else.

I also remember walking around downtown Charleston later that night and telling everyone we encountered that we had just gotten engaged. I may have been flashing my left hand, but I’m sure everyone’s eye was on that shirt. I ended up changing my mind about the shirt when he later told me that he had made his sartorial choice with a deeper meaning in mind. That was the shirt he had been wearing when his mother died, and he wanted to associate it with something happy. From that point I viewed the shirt as a reminder that I had married a man who would consciously recognize and commemorate life’s most sacred moments; thus it became my favorite garment of his, mixed plaids and all. He calls it his "Life Shirt."

The times the Life Shirt has made an appearance have been those that have marked his most poignant experiences—most of them happy, some of them ushering in a strange new chapter, all of them meaningful. I had forgotten about the Life Shirt once we began our lives as newlyweds. After we married, the shirt assumed its position in the closet behind a rainbow of Polos and was all but forgotten until one spring day in 1999. That particular morning I wasn’t distracted by clothes; I was just eager to get to the hospital. Jim helped me into the car, loaded our overnight bags, and could barely manage his nerves and excitement as he drove us towards our new role as parents. Several hours later I thought his heart would burst through that plaid shirt which he saturated with tears of overwhelming joy upon holding his first daughter.

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Each of our three girls first met their father by nestling their newborn heads into the worn fabric of the Life Shirt. Subsequent first birthdays were celebrated in a splendor of Madras; down the road, graduations were acknowledged with a little relief, a lot of pride, and the perfect amount of thinning cotton in muted plaid.

I never think about the Life Shirt until I see it. Most days are blessedly uneventful, which is not to say they’re dull. We do all the things I imagine most families do: celebrate traditions, worry about non-existent crises, deal with actual crises, and spend more time deciding on a movie than watching the movie. Even with the kids now mostly grown and dispersed far and wide, we’re all active on our family text thread and tend to convene at the end of the day. The Life Shirt, ironically, is too special for daily life.

Of course, daily life changes as much as it doesn’t. Our family has endured a few transitions already this year. One daughter is now abroad, another in a college apartment with friends, and the youngest finally living the only child dream. We have a growing puppy and a quiet house. We’re actively fantasizing about our empty nest stage, otherwise known as a smaller house with no stairs. And there has been another change, one I can’t quite get used to yet.

After the holidays our old girl, Luna—a beloved cattle dog of advanced years—began letting us know that her time with us was coming to a close. We had been looking for signs that her body was giving out, and a few weeks into the new year she was visibly in pain and having dif-