Tradition
Summary: 'Things were not done as I would have chosen, but it worked out nonetheless. Which I suppose, is the story of my life.' Emily POV.
'We raise our children with the best intentions. We do what we believe is right, and sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. We all just do the best we can.'
As a little girl, I was taught that appearances do not make a person, rather, they make room for growth.
Ribbons, lace, tulle, curls, pearls.
All intricate pieces in the life of a five year old.
It was natural for me, natural to spend more hours primping and grooming than I spent being a child.
At five I know what titivate meant, in all senses of the word.
My mother taught me all the necessary life lessons; the correct number of accessories needed to accentuate an outfit, all while maintaining a sense of modest femininity of course. She taught me which hat style framed my face with the most flattering results. With these lessons, always came the same words, spoken from a true sage.
"Someday you will teach your daughter what I have taught you, so she can fully appreciate what it means to be a woman."
The words flowed from where she stood behind me, watching, as I sat while Magda, my governess, pinned my hair.
When my engagement was formally announced, my mother set to work deciding what she deemed 'the most important fashion decisions of my life.'
She had things ordered from Paris, Florence, Milan, and other places in Europe I had never even heard of. She had three seamstresses working around the clock making my wedding dress, I was never allowed into the room while they worked, except for fittings.
My opinion mattered very little, although it was my wedding, I was, according to her, 'too young to make such important decisions.' Apparently I was old enough to commit myself to a man for the rest of my life but still too young to decide if I preferred off white or cream.
I knew from the time I was twelve that I wanted lilies and orchids with a silver bow wrapped around them for my bouquet, but my mother had other ideas.
I accepted, (rather passively I can now admit), all of my mother's instructions, terms, and guidelines. Not because I liked them, or because I thought I was incompetent to decide on my own, but simply because it was how things were done.
She told me my head was too large for a veil, and I smiled and nodded, because it was how things were done.
She picked out a tiara that would minimize my apparently grossly large head, and while it was a head-shrinking tiara, it also happened to be the most meretricious ornament I had ever seen. I was sure I would be the laughingstock among the ladies of the DAR, (of which I had recently been inducted,) who of course, would all be in attendance at the ceremony. Not because I liked any of them (they really were quite snobby,) and wished to share my special day with them, but simply because it was how things were done.
My happiest moments of pre-wedding planning came at night, after the household was asleep. I donned my dress, gloves, and that hideous tiara, and the world dissipated. My trembling knees ceased their quaking, the butterflies in my stomach calmed, and possibly most relieving of all, my mother wasn't there behind me, as she always was, quick to point out my faults. I remember how very safe I felt. How very right and wise and honored.
My wedding day was beautiful, I would even say perfect. Things were not done as I would have chosen, but it worked out nonetheless. Which I suppose, is the story of my life.
Moving in with my new husband was absolutely wonderful. We were both living in an almost surreal newlywed world, where everything is new and exciting. Every joke is hilarious, every little touch is incredible. God, that was a good feeling. Even better perhaps, was the glorious sense of freedom I felt. Finally, I lived in a house where I had control. I chose what time dinner was to be served at. I chose when I was no longer satisfied with the services of a maid. I'll admit, I may have been a little too zealous in my endeavors as a housewife, possibly too strict with and quick to terminate the help. My husband would say something like "My wife has made it her goal to employee every maid in America. She's almost there, as well." I haven't had that many maids. Or perhaps I just stopped counting.
Three years of married life passed relatively quickly, and blissfully as well. Our fighting was kept to a minimum, and barring a poor investment incident involving the Dubliners Paper Corporation, we emerged from early married life relatively unscathed. We lived quite comfortably, and I had everything I ever dreamed of and more.
Not long after our third wedding anniversary (the leather and hide anniversary; I gave a leather footstool suitable for an office, and received a pair of elegant leather gloves), I found out I was pregnant. We were overjoyed, and began our enthusiastic planning. A beautiful nursery was set up, designed neutrally to prepare for a baby of either sex, and it was filled with mobiles, rattles, and the crown jewel of the nursery, a hand carved wooden rocking chair from the women of the DAR. (I was beginning to warm up to those women, and they were even beginning to accept me.)
I rocked in the chair every night, my hands resting on my ever-growing belly. I would sit in silence and think. I thought about what my baby would look like, what kind of mother I would be, and, the sex of my baby. I knew from the moment I found out I was pregnant that I wanted a girl. Of course, when anyone asked about my preference, I smiled and said I would be happy with a boy or a girl, as long as it was healthy. Not because it was true, but because it was how things were done.
I wanted to have a daughter so I could pass on everything my mother taught me. I would raise a beautiful girl who would grow and become a beautiful woman of society. I imagined bringing her everywhere, functions, society dinners, somewhere everyone could marvel at what a perfect little child she was.
I would teach her to dress, eat, walk, and talk like a woman of society. Every inch a lady, my daughter would be.
I always assumed a child of mine would want everything I had wanted as I child. It never occurred to me that someone would turn away from the life of curls and pearls I had enjoyed as a little girl.
When I gave birth to a daughter, I was overjoyed. I had everything I wanted. A loving husband, a beautiful house, and now a perfect little girl. I wanted to give her everything, and more. For her christening, we picked up a darling little dress in London. Twelve petticoats, and worth every penny. I would still have it now, if grape juice hadn't been spilled all over it just minutes after the ceremony.
As she grew older, it became more and more apparent that my daughter was different. Strange as it was to me, she was refusing everything I ever wanted for her. I tried to ignore it, drown these ridiculous ideas in cotillions and lace.
I was planning her debutante ball, thinking that this might be just the thing to make her want the life I was accustomed to, when I got the worst news of my life. My daughter, sixteen years old, was pregnant. Needless to say, I was shocked, disappointed, and angry. How could she be so utterly stupid? So irresponsible? I had know she had a boyfriend, (not because she confided in me, but because I caught them kissing numerous times,) that horrible Christopher boy. He was polite enough, but weak and pathetic. With a ridiculous sense of naivete, I had never imagined anything like this happening. As my mother had taught me, a lady must remain cool and collected even under intense stress, so I calmly explained to Lorelai that she must marry Christopher. Not because she loved him, (she was really too young to understand love anyway,) but simply because it was how things were done. She refused, and I was shocked. There was a certain procedure to be followed, and I couldn't understand why she was so against doing what had to be done. That was the thing with Lorelai, I never understood anything about her. Whether it was her incessant babbling about some man apparently named Prince, (what were his parents thinking?) or she was making the peas talk to each other at dinner. She was a puzzle to me, and I have never enjoyed puzzles.
When the baby was born, a beautiful baby girl, I was thrilled. Lorelai never appreciated everything I loved, the 'finer things in life,' and here was my second chance to raise a prim lady of society. Lorelai stayed only a year, but we fought constantly. I wanted Rory dressed in proper clothing, while Lorelai insisted on dressing her in rags, some old dirty t-shirt depicting women with ridiculously huge hair, Banana-something-or-other. We screamed at each other, but never once communicated. After a year, Lorelai left, and she took my granddaughter with her.
I stayed in bed for a month, wondering where I had gone wrong. In an instant I had lost my daughter and my granddaughter. Since Lorelai was born, I've done what I believe is best for her, because I am her mother, and that is how things are done.