Healing generational patterns between mother and daughter relationships
My little girl will be turning 20 soon, the age I was when I got married. I’m so relieved she is not following in my footsteps, deciding to marry as young as I had. Moms have a wisdom their daughters must learn for themselves, but I wish I’d understood back then what my daughter has learned in living with the aftermath of my upbringing. As much as we think we know what’s best for our daughters, only they can know what really fits. Guidance is less about telling them what they should do, and more in helping them trust their own judgement. I pull my box of memories out from its place in the garage and lift the lid, revealing a white velvet dress lying on top. I’m surprised by the tears that spring to my eyes as I lift it and hug it to my chest.
* * *
“Are you aware that your bra shows and your bust is falling out of your dress?” I say abruptly as my 19 year-old daughter enters the room.
“Yeah, so?” she says, her eye lids half closed, her lips a thin line. I know her tired look is an attempt to mask her annoyance and brace herself with numbness. As soon as I see the look, I want to retract my words. It hadn’t come out right.
“I mean…” I falter. “With two adult males in the house, I wondered if you were making them uncomfortable bearing your breasts like that.”
She looks at me blankly. Ugh, I was making it worse.
“Not that I’m saying that you as a woman need to monitor yourself to make them feel comfortable. But one being your brother and one of them being my boyfriend, I wonder if they have to take special care to avoid letting their eyes be drawn to your bust…” I trail off, trying, like my daughter, to play it cool. “They probably haven’t said anything because they are too embarrassed. But I know that guys who are trying to be respectful have to be careful to avert their eyes. And wearing cleavage-bearing clothing puts them in an uncomfortable position.”
She still doesn’t say anything, but her blank expression tells me I am being a bitch of a mother, judging and shaming her. I take a deep breath and try to own my callousness.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re 19 and a grown woman. I over-mothered you and should not have said that. I am irritated today after an argument with someone else and my being critical of you is spilling out. I am sorry I hurt you.”
“It’s fine,” she says flatly and leaves the room as though it is. But I know it’s not fine. I want to kick myself. I had thought I wasn’t that kind of mom anymore, but here I am, making the same blunder.
* * *
Back in the fall of 1999, my oldest Brother Number-One was getting married. His fiancée was having her bridal shower and I was meeting Mom to go together. Brother Number-Three had announced just the week prior that he was engaged to a girl he had just met at BYU three weeks ago. Quick engagements were normal in the Mormon religion.
So I was embarrassed about the news I was coming to bear. It had only been 3 weeks earlier that I had come home bringing my laundry to wash and Mom had asked me about my relationship with the guy I was dating. I told her then that I had broken up with him and I gave her what felt like superficial reasons. I dreaded coming home to tell her now that I had gotten back together with him and was in fact now engaged to be married. I had taken off the engagement ring and put it in my pocket before I went inside the house. I wasn’t ready to break the news to her, and I didn’t want to one-up my soon-to-be sister-in-law. My brother’s fiancée was beautiful and glowing, and Mom was proud and relieved that her son had found someone good for him. Mom had been good friends with the girl’s older sister so she had pre-approved the match.
Time was running out and I had delayed long enough. I cracked my knuckles and wrung my hands, then fished in my pocket and slipped the ring back on.
“Mom,” I said, clearing my throat. She had dumped my laundry on the couch, and I picked up a dress from the pile and started folding it next to her. She didn’t say anything, just kept folding. My heart started pounding.
“I’m getting married,” I heard myself blurt out.
Mom dropped the pair of socks and faced me, putting her hands on her hips.
“To Rex?” she accused. “You just broke up with him. Why would you marry him?”
I was tongue-tied, a little girl caught doing something naughty.
“He’s a good man,” I said. “He’s funny and he is so intelligent. He has the most amazing thoughts to share in Sunday School. He’s so thoughtful and remembers everything I say. We have so much fun together and he loves to talk to me. He’s very sweet.”
“You were just telling me how he doesn’t clean up after himself and doesn’t know how to manage money. He doesn’t even pay for his own place and sleeps on the floor of someone else’s apartment. He hasn’t been to college and he works at a copy supply store where he makes barely over minimum wage. Someone who is sweet and fun to play with does not mean they would make a responsible spouse.”
“You don’t know him!” I wailed, sounding to myself like Aerial in Disney’s Little Mermaid.
“YOU don’t know him. You met him 3 months ago. He is your first relationship and people don’t marry their first relationships,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You spent a year at college where everyone was pairing up and getting married. You are feeling swept up in the marriage trend from your brothers both getting engaged. You’re just in love with the idea of being in love.”
“No Mom,” I said, hearing the tremble in my voice. I had never spoken back to her before. “I didn’t want to get married in the first place. It’s just that I actually fell in love, and I didn’t know it until I broke up with him.”
“You didn’t fall in love,” she lectured. “Every relationship that doesn’t end in marriage ends in a breakup and you are going to have to deal with lots of those. The pain doesn’t mean you were in love, and even if you were in love, it doesn’t mean you were meant to get married.”
I looked at the pile of clothes still unfolded on the couch, wishing I’d waited until I was walking out the door with them neatly in the laundry basket before I’d opened my mouth. I knew better than to share something important with Mom.
* * *
“Megan,” I try, humbly approaching my daughter in the kitchen. “I want to apologize again for what I said yesterday.”
She is expressionless like she was the day before. My heart starts pounding. I need to get this right.
“I am horrified that I sounded just like my own mom, shaming you as if you were dressed like a whore. I know that made you feel like trash, especially coming from someone you should be able to trust not to judge you. You said it was fine but it was really not okay for me to say that and I wanted to know if I could have a do-over? I’m sorry.”
Her face softens and her eyes brim with tears.
“I just feel so fat and the only part of my body I am proud of are my breasts,” she says. Her tears start streaming down her face. “Why is it bad for someone to see the one part of me that’s pretty?”
I try not to tear up with her. I want so badly to come to her and hug her. I want to tell her she’s not fat. I want to tell her that she’s beautiful. But I know that’s not how she feels and not what she needs to hear.
“It is not bad to want to be admired. Your bust IS a great asset, so it makes sense that you would want to show it off. I know that you are self-conscious about your weight, but honestly, your weight is not a problem. It’s that you don’t have clothes that flatter your body. You are beautifully curvy, and your clothes don’t do it justice.”
She laughs through her tears. Thank you God for giving me the right words!
“Every girl has body image issues. When I was your age, I was 20 pounds heavier than I am now. And I still judge myself,” I said. I stop, not wanting to compare myself to her or make the dilemma about me. “I think you would look good in dresses or tops that are tighter around the bust and flow out from there. Styles like smocking or an empire waist.”
“You have such an elegant style Mom,” she smiles.
“Oh, you should have seen me when I was in my 20’s. I had no sense of style until I was in my 30’s. It took me a long time to figure out what actually looked good on me.”
“I wish I could find what things looked good on me. But I don’t have the money after cutting my hours at work to make time for school. After you talked to me yesterday, I felt so awful, I decided to spend the money anyway and bought a bunch of dresses on Amazon to try on.”
“Clothes aren’t cheap. Will you let me pay for it?”
“Actually, I’d like your help finding clothes that are right for me. Can you take me shopping?”
My heart jumps out of my chest.
“Asking me that is such an honor. I would love to do that!”
“Kind of ironic, huh?” she says, still smiling. “I always hated shopping.”
“Especially with me!” I finish for her. We laugh. Now I could hug her.
“I’m so excited!”
“Me too.”
* * *
After my sister-in-law’s bridal shower, each of my family members reached out to warn me. My brother, the groom, called me first and told me Mom had broken the news to him. Brother Number-One told me I was making a mistake. He had been married once before, he reminded me, and he had been young and inexperienced like me. I should wait, the right one would come eventually, like his finally was.
The next night, it was Brother Number-Two, the second oldest, that called to give me advice. He said marrying Rex might get me to the Celestial Kingdom (the highest goal of good Mormons), but I wouldn’t have any fun getting there. “You haven’t met Rex,” I said. “If you had, you’d know that I never stop laughing when I’m with him. He’s like Robin Williams.”
Next in line was brother Number-Three. “My fiancé’s family isn’t supportive of her getting married either. We are planning on getting married in December during Christmas Break. What do you say we have a double wedding?” Perhaps he was commiserating, but it felt more like Robert was just looking for someone to give him moral support rather than anything mutual. I didn’t want to be overshadowed yet again by a sibling that Mom approved of. It was supposed to be my big day.
Brother Number-Four didn’t say anything at all. He never did. Perhaps his silence was better than whatever judgement he had in his head.
* * *
Before my daughter and I have the chance to go on our shopping trip, several packages arrive from Amazon. She flies to her room to change.
I hear her knock on her brother’s bedroom door.
“Wow, that looks so pretty!” he says when he opens the door. Sometimes I am envious of their relationship, wishing my brothers and I had been so close. But it makes me happier it’s my own daughter I get to witness embracing her brother in shared appreciation.
I poke my head out of my room to see my girl in a long white dress with puff sleeves and a smocked bodice. She could have been a bride.
“Wow!” I exclaim. “That dress looks gorgeous on you.”
She turns and beams and steps in front of the mirror in the hall, swishing the skirt like a princess.
“I have more! Wait and see.”
She bounces away and comes back with a light blue dress with another smocked bodice. It is open around the back, showing skin without being revealing.
“You have nice taste!” I say. “I really like that style and it flatters you.”
She scrunches her shoulders and tucks in her elbows, clapping her hands in her cute little-girl way I find so adorable. Her delight is contagious, and I can’t wait to go with her to buy her more pretty clothes.
* * *
My parents had taught me to be self-sufficient, to find my own way of getting places when I was a teen, and to not ask for much from them. My mom would sometimes secretly hand me a twenty dollar bill for gas money and tell me not to let my step dad find out. When we got fast food for dinner every Friday night, she thanked the Lord in prayer that we were so blessed to afford such luxury. I didn’t know other people’s parents didn’t think twice about the price of a long-distance call to their adult kid. Now grown up, I was more relieved than proud not to burden anyone. I knew that I was on my own to pay for my wedding, especially since my family was obviously against it in the first place. I certainly would not be asking them to help.
Fortunately, a temple wedding does not cost a dime, and the homespun style in which Mormons throw receptions doesn’t cost the fortune I learned decades later that people typically spend when I worked as an event hall manager.
As was common among Mormon girls, I learned to sew when I was a teenager. I had made enough clothes of my own that I was confident of sewing my own wedding dress. I was a simple girl with simple tastes and didn’t want satin or heavy fabric or lace. I also knew that finding a modest dress that met the standards of the temple would be hard to find, especially at a price I could afford.
But Mom said that she wanted to take me dress shopping as my bridal gift. I took it as a peace offering, and a great sacrifice too, since my disgust for shopping was born from hers. Two women who only wore dresses when the occasion called for it, who felt that shopping was a necessity worse than collecting garbage, we set off in search of a wedding gown under $300. I was mortified by my mom’s sticker shock reaction at each bridal shop we went to, and humiliated by her demand that we see what was on clearance.
Not only was every dress gaudy and off-the-shoulders or deep-plunge in front or back, but no dress flattered my plump short frame. With every dress, I felt uglier and uglier, an imposter in princess clothes too fancy for a girl like me. I could not see how we could possibly find anything under $1,000, and I left each store with my heart caged, getting quieter the grumpier Mom became. Eventually we found a dress off the clearance rack that fit our budget and met the modesty standards, even if it wasn’t very pretty. I could live with it, and I smiled stiffly, relieved our search was over but worried about the cost of adjustments.
The seamstress took longer than estimated and the dress was ready for the fitting 2 weeks prior to my wedding day. I went with dread, mostly because I worried Mom wouldn’t like it. When I tried it on, I wanted to cry, but my family didn’t have tear ducts. I couldn’t bear being shamed for that too. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a child wearing an oversized adult costume dwarfed to fit; I was a white tub of lard with pearls glued on a stiff satin suit. My mom said we were ripped off and practically threw the cash at the clerk, the adjustments costing twice the price of the dress itself. She seethed all the way home, and my tears welled up inside my chest.
I hung up the dress in the closet of my childhood bedroom and quietly left the house, hearing Mom vent to my step dad about the price as I closed the door behind me. I couldn’t bare to take that hideous garment with me to my apartment where my roommates might see.
* * *
I’d tried so many retail stores since my daughter was little, but Texas Thrift next door to the mall still has the nicest things at the best prices, even if they removed their changing rooms after the Pandemic. With full length mirrors at the end of every aisle, we don’t pay any mind to the new practice of trying on clothes over existing ones in front of passers-by. I briefly recall my own prior embarrassment over public indecency and wonder how I am now so comfortable being seen without makeup. I am proud of my daughter as she confidently strides straight to the Large section, as if it never crosses her mind that she isn’t the American Barbie size small.
Riffling through the racks, we both pull a dozen dresses to show each other.
“This one looks cute,” she says, holding one up against her body.
“I really like the print and I think it looks fine off the rack, but that’s more like your old style,” I say. I could imagine the old version of me would have said it looked ugly on her.
“Yeah, no wonder I picked that. I’m so used to the same things.”
She wrinkles her nose when I suggest one I like.
“Hmmm,” I say, reconsidering. “I think that one is more my style, not yours. How about this one?”
She shakes her head. I’m glad she knows she can disagree with my choices and know I won’t insist.
“What about this one?” she says.
“That’s pretty! I want to see that one on you.”
We scurry over to the end of the aisle, and I think how often we are mistaken as sisters. She pulls the dress over the one she’s wearing, and I gasp. It is baby blue with lace, the heart-shaped bodice solid underneath, the silk skirt down to the floor with a wide ribbon around the waist that ties in the back.
“Too fancy?” she asks.
“I don’t care! You can wear it at my wedding when I remarry! You have to get that one.”
The radiance of the dress is nothing compared to the look on her face. She performs her tight little clap, bouncing from foot to foot with glee. I felt like I was her fairy godmother and she was my Cinderella getting ready for the ball.
* * *
Only a few days till my wedding, I got sick with a cold and lost my voice. As a travel agent whose job required talking to people on the phone, I took several days off work. Instead of resting, I decided to scrap the damn dress and do what I’d wanted to do in the first place. I went to my local fabric store and bought yards of white velvet cotton and repurposed an old dress pattern I had. I adjusted the pattern to accommodate the 20 pounds I had gained since I’d used it to make a casual dress with it 5 years earlier. The original dress I’d made at 15 was royal blue linen, the same color I’d chosen for my reception theme. I remembered back then how unforgiving and tight the linen was, so I purposely chose a stretchy fabric for this one. Trying this on for final fitting, I felt much more comfortable being able to breathe in the long soft gown than I had in the stiff bridal straitjacket. It took me 10 hours, but I finished my wedding dress in two days. The relief that washed over me was almost as great as if I had decided to elope.
To be married in the temple, I had to go through a ceremony called an Endowment, which is typically done only a few weeks prior to the marriage. It is required to make certain covenants with God and a commitment to wearing sacred undergarments not unlike other religious sects. The new undergarments cover more of the body which necessitates more modest clothes with a higher neckline and covers the shoulders. This was part of the reason why I had such a hard time finding a wedding dress.
What they didn’t tell me was that my entire body needed to be covered in the temple. It was sunny and 75 degrees on my wedding day in San Diego, but I was supposed to have long sleeves in the temple. When I arrived for my big day, I was issued a dicky, a long-sleeve undershirt to accommodate my “immodest” dress. I was also told to remove the flowers from my hair. Then I was ordered to the changing room to become more presentable. As I wandered the white corridors of the temple, trying to find my way to the changing room, I passed several other brides. They had magnificent ball gowns, their hair braided and styled in magazine-fashions, their makeup flawless. I asked for directions twice, and finally stumbled my way through the white carpeted halls with chandeliers and pearly walls to the locker room. It was like another maze in itself and I found an empty cubicle where I undressed, put on the dicky, and put my simple threads back on. I stood looking at myself in the mirror, feeling silly with a mismatched undershirt sticking out of my simple dress, comical and unbefitting inside a castle-like edifice. For the first time I could remember since I was 6 years old, I started to cry.
I dried my eyes, reapplied my makeup, and exited my cubicle to see a mother and daughter hugging each other. I was alone and lost. Was I making the biggest mistake of my life? “Now that the invitations have been printed, you can’t back out now,” Mom had said two months before the wedding. I wondered if this was what people meant when they said they got cold feet on their wedding day. I just wanted to run away.
I don’t remember Mom’s reaction when I arrived at the temple in a different dress. I don’t remember walking down the spiral staircase or meeting my husband in the sealing room. I don’t remember gazing at him across the alter, framed behind each of us by mirrors that depicted eternity. What I remember was the officiator saying “if anyone in this room has ill feelings towards another, please leave the circle at this time.” I looked around and wondered why nobody left and felt a surge of anger, thinking they were lying if they pretended to be supportive of this union. Maybe it was me that should have left. Oh Godmother, please hold me!
* * *
In the years that followed, I gave birth to three children, and with each baby, I lost weight. I knew that I would never again wear that wedding dress, even though it was simple enough for everyday Sabbath worship. But I now swam in it. And it held too much pain from that unpleasant experience even to look at, let alone wear. It was customary, however, to dress your newborn in white Sunday attire for a baby blessing, so when my daughter was born, I decided to make a dress for her out of remnants from my wedding dress. I did not consider myself a sentimental person, but it was beautiful to behold my little girl blessed by her father in the dress I wore that gave me the privilege to become her mother.
Today I hold that miniature dress, grateful I never gave it away. Breaking old patterns that were passed down from one generation to another, I feel more like I’m breaking a spell. Maybe I didn’t need a fairy godmother all those years ago; maybe I just needed a daughter so we could both have "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue….” But what about the “sixpence in your shoe?" Apparently, that tradition was a symbol of good luck and prosperity passed down through generations. What a rich new future I am creating for myself and our future daughters!
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