Home

The big day has arrived. My son, my first born, is getting married.

I stand with my husband under the chuppah, a canopy of flowers. We have just completed the walk down the aisle, our arms linked to those of our strong, handsome son. Now, as we face the chapel doors in anticipation of the bride's entrance, I look up at the tall groom with the glowing face and pray I shall not cry before all these people, for so much has gone before this day I never thought I'd see.

It has been very hard to raise this child. The first. Had I known what I would have to do, to give, to give up, to learn, to be, I would probably have been too afraid to undertake this role -- to be a mother, on duty forever, in spite of my own troubles, illnesses, ambitions, and failures.

Before he was born, I remember praying for a son. For my husband, a son. And for me a son, thinking it easier to be mother to a son than to a daughter.

Then he is born.

He is a lively rascal, bright and full of fire. As an infant he never sleeps, crying constantly, his digestion easily upset. Often he cannot keep his milk down. Years later we learn that he is allergic to milk.

As a toddler he gets into everything, takes everything apart, and I am afraid to leave him alone for even an instant. I am unwelcome at afternoon coffee klatches with other young mothers because he takes their homes apart and hits their children. In kindergarten, he is isolated from the class by an impatient teacher who cannot immediately contain his exuberance. Throughout his public and Hebrew school years, his energy and spirit do not simmer down, frequently getting him into hot water with those teachers who expect children to be models of decorum. At home and everywhere else he gets into all sorts of mischief and scrapes. With him it is always "it fell, it broke, it fell apart." In truth he had his father's curiosity -- always wanting to know "from whence the feet grew."

Yet he is kind to everyone, even winning an award at Hebrew school graduation for always helping others. He won't even kill an insect. When he catches fireflies on summer evenings, he makes sure to release them before they die.

By the age of 12, girls have discovered this blond young man. There are telephone calls from girls, letters, and one day, quite by accident, I discover that he has given his I.D. bracelet to a spunky young lady. He is going steady! But she is only the first of many girls to come.

He does not do well in high school, claiming that high school is "irrelevant." There are cars, cigarettes, and long hair. Then a mustache (a barely discernable smudge of dirt on his upper lip), Dingo boots, and a room covered with beer posters.

At college, he fools around and drinks, falls and breaks his leg, and flunks out in his first year. That really shakes him up. He finally realizes that he can't keep fooling around any more and has to qualify himself for a future occupation. He pulls himself together and puts himself through college by working. He has always worked. Although he was usually the last to go looking for a job, he was always the first to get one, a tribute to both his charm and his luck. This time, though, he works at every dirty job necessary to pay for school.

He does us a favor and attends his college graduation ceremony so that we may have the pleasure of witnessing the event. In a green meadow surrounded by flowers, he walks in the processional, his cap and tassel askew, a girl in front of him and two behind, as always. I am so thrilled that I can barely speak.

And he goes to work, getting a job in a flash. More cars and girls and beer.

One day, he brings home a new girl. Others have come to the house before, but this one is different -- tall, graceful, demure, with glistening black hair. He looks expectantly at us and so does she. She is examining us -- we are examining her. Her eyes sparkle as she looks at him. He glows with pride as if to say, "She is with me."

I am not surprised when they are engaged soon after. I marvel at our good fortune and his.

And here she is now, my lovely daughter-in-law coming down the aisle with her parents. The feeling of joy in this chapel is so strong, I can feel it in my bones and my smile deepens. Her parents come to join us as our son walks to his bride and takes her arm. Her dark beauty is a startling thing against the while lace.

As I watch them come toward us, I know for certain that I will not cry at all. I look at my husband. He, my partner in this venture, smiles back at me. We know the best is yet to be. Silently, in Hebrew, I recite a blessing that seems so appropriate for this special moment:

"Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, ruler of the universe, who has kept us in life and sustenance, and enabled us to reach this happy season."

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.