Marrying My Mother
Eww, not in that way, silly

By T.J. DeGroat

I married my mother last year.

Thanks to the Universal Life Church in Modesto, Calif., I was a 22-year-old ordained minister with a clip art-covered certificate to prove it. So with all sorts of power vested in me by the state of New Jersey and the Internet, I found myself at an Englewood, NJ historical society on an unusually cold March day, bouncing through Dr. Seuss inspired vows, and uttering the words, "You may now kiss... my mom."

It was an untraditional wedding for a decidedly untraditional family. While we're not quite as quirky as the much-celebrated Sedaris clan, we're about as diverse as a bunch of East Coast WASPs can get.

Seated at the beautifully adorned tables filling up the small dining room was my bisexual Wiccan aunt, who for years has patiently walked around each new apartment burning sage to cleanse the air around her.

Beside her was another aunt, who spent a summer of her childhood wearing snow boots and viciously fighting anyone who dared to lure her into a bathtub, and her husband, whose allergies to nearly every delicious food imaginable leaves only Rice Krispie treats as a potential dessert. Yes, there was a Rice Krispie wedding cake.

Mercifully, my grandfather, the only Republican in a family full of liberal Democrats, was seated a few tables away, where a handful of poor saps politely listened to him drone on about his plan to restructure the three branches of the federal government. I looked away when the former architect pulled out a flowchart.

To my left sat my best friend, a girl with unmatched book smarts who roared through AP classes in high school, only to transfer from Vassar to Rutgers and then drop out, no joke, three times.

On the dance floor was my mom -- my hero -- and her man.

This St. Patrick's Day soiree came after more than 10 years of commitment for my mom and her new husband. The new guy showed up just as I was coming out of the haze surrounding my young parents' traumatic divorce. He was immature and unaccustomed to kids, but in love with my mother.

I didn't get it. What was so great about my mom, the lady with the mid-'80s perm and huge glasses who, I was convinced, sabotaged my chances at familial normalcy. I was still maniacally attached to my imbecilic father back then, so my mother was the enemy, but this new guy was an even bigger threat to the fairy-tale ending I knew I deserved.

A reconciliation wasn't in the cards and just as quickly as my relationship with my father deteriorated, my mother's new romance heated up. When I was barely 7 he moved in. At 8, we were off to Disney World for a Christmas vacation. The next year saw us driving to the God-awful hills of Tennessee to spend the holidays with his family.

They've been together ever since. An engagement ring made its debut in 1995, but everyone knew my 30-something mother was no longer the marrying type. There was greater chance that my 75-year-old gay great uncle would find a blushing bride.

Wouldn't you know it, two years later, the senior citizen we all assumed was gay announced he was getting married and moving to North Carolina with a woman he'd been having an affair with for nearly a decade. If Uncle Bob can walk down the aisle at 75, maybe my 40-something mother would take the plunge for a second time, I thought. Apparently, so did she.

So here we were, at a low-key, but beautiful affair attended by close friends and the immediate family. As an Irish-themed mix CD played in the background, my linebacker of a younger brother threw my overjoyed mom around the dance floor. My bisexual aunt stared adoringly at her... boyfriend. Two familiar faces eyed the Rice Krispie treats sitting next to a more traditional marzipan monster. My narcoleptic grandfather dozed off in his chair, his flowchart safely tucked away. And my best friend was getting ready to teach a captivated audience some hardcore Irish dancing: a jig from our high school's production of Brigadoon.

My mom? She was bouncing between her new husband and the rest of her family, who could not have been any more joyous. As I stood in the back of the room, thinking about how awkward it was to hear my mom declare her love for a man, I saw the new guy whip out his best faux Irish jig, throwing his legs around as my mother nearly collapsed from laughter. And I grinned, realizing that I was a part of something pretty peculiar, but very special.

T.J. DeGroat is a Hatch Magazine editor.