Will there be a wedding tomorrow?

I had this picture of my "bachelorette” party in my head. (Bachelorette exists in air quotes because I really don't think you get to claim this phrase when it's your second wedding, and certainly not in conjunction to the word "party" when it's daytime and the most scandalous thing about the event is inappropriate cupcakes that your best friend's husband made..)  

I imagined my closest gal pals coming over to our new home, light shining through the big picture windows, flowers on the table, and "The Wedding Planner" playing on Netflix in the background.  We would do yoga, get mani/pedis and giggle over mimosas while my friends would ooh and aah over my new house and new life.  I would emerge into the rest of the day relaxed, refreshed and bride-like.  EEEEEEEECHKY!  Enter screeching halt, nails on a chalkboard, car crashing sound here!

To tell the story of this particular course of events, I need to give a short synopsis of the previous 24 hours. My future husband and I had the worst idea on the planet of moving in right before the wedding. We were trying to be appropriate and modest for our children. Somehow cloaking them at this impressionable age from thinking that cohabitation before marriage is a-okay. This was a ridiculous idea, logistically a nightmare, and the kids will likely look back with no clue this was meant to teach them anything. So, 48 hours before nuptials, Eric started to move all his worldly possessions from his apartment into my (I mean - our) perfectly neat and organized new home. For crying out loud I had a freshly pressed table runner on the dining room table. 

My husband has so many wonderful qualities. So many. He's really a saint of a human.  Really.  Patient, funny, kind, loving.  The list can go on and on.  Neat and organized, however, will never make that list.  God help me if we ever move again.  And so, while my worldly possessions showed up boxed with labels as to which room and which floor they were to be unloaded.  His showed up in heaps, open boxes labeled "Etc." and got shoved into the front room of my (I mean - our) perfectly neat and organized new home.  Did I mention he moved primarily between the hours of 10pm - 3am, for God only knows what reason.  Oh! And that he also was to pick up his girls 24 hours before our wedding to bring them home to my (damn. our) new house?  

So I left that morning, house in a shambles, but still anxious about the girly fun that was to await me.  Messy children were at the kitchen counter looking for applesauce.  Future husband groggy eyed and in his boxers.  But hopeful.  And still stupidly planning to bring back my girl friends to my (I give up. our) new home.  I left at 8am.  First on the agenda - Orange Theory workout.  Because at that point in time I worked out.  Next, cheap booze in the parking lot on an empty stomach. "Barefoot - taste the savings." Mani/pedi - check.  Barbie doll pink nails I didn't expect, but I was still smiling.  I could work with that.  By Noon we were piling into my friend's minivan heading back to my house for the grand tour.  Why I thought this was a good idea is still in question.  (We sort of laugh about this now...)

Four hours later I walked into exactly what I had left.  Messy children in the kitchen.  A groggy, half-dressed fiance.  And clutter which had appeared to double in the time since I had left.  

It was all I could do to get my girls in and out in as quick of a gracious fashion as I could.  Apologizing for each room I opened, each new mess that hadn't existed before.  They left, and somewhere between the cheap booze and realizing that there was applesauce stuck to the counter and a mystery black permanent marker smudge on the new white cupboard, I lost it.  Hot, wet, ugly tears started to roll.  My new husband looked at me bewildered and dismayed.  Totally confused.  And I was mad.  We started to fight. And we fought like we had never fought before.  Both sleep deprived and anxious about the move and merger of a new life together.   I felt like my perfect morning of a "bachelorrette" experience was dashed.  He thought I had unrealistic expectations and little sympathy for his move.  And we fought.  And unfortunately, I'm still ashamed that we fought in front of the girls.  Impressionable girls who had never seen us fight and had just moved into this new space themselves. It was ugly.

I feverishly packed for the next day through hot tears.  And as I packed angrily for the wedding, from upstairs in the bedroom I heard the littlest voice exclaim (somewhat sarcastically might I add) “Will there be a wedding tomorrow!?!"  An honest question.  A question, quite frankly we were all wondering.  And I heard her dad say in a sweet, calm voice, "yes, there will be a wedding tomorrow."  And there was.