The Babymama Boogie

by Claire Haldeman

I attended an improbable wedding last September.

My cousin Steve was marrying his girlfriend, Amanda, a spunky jeans-and-pumps woman—both of them children of divorce. At thirty years old, the two of them had already bought a house, weathered a bout with cancer, and had kids of their own. Twins.

They were already life partners. Nobody was going anywhere.

But they did it. They threw the party, sent the invites, bought the cake, tied the knot, and footed the bill. They still had to pay for doctors’ appointments, student loans, their mortgage, and their two babies, programmed to eat money, like all small humans. Steve and Amanda had to really want to buy that big white wedding.

So big and white the wedding was, at a golf course in North Salem, New York. There was tulle and mini puff pastries and napkin rings. The whole affair smelled like butter and John Frieda hairspray. Every guest got a bottle of prosecco to take home. And oh, the music. God Almighty must have shared his certified Modern Wedding Classics playlist with the DJ. Sinatra and Elvis, Van Morrison and Nat King Cole, The Foundations, Neil Diamond, Stevie Wonder. Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, Madonna. Prince. Mariah Carey. And then, of course family-friendly summer hits: “Shake It Off,” “Happy,” “I Don’t Care” (censored, obviously).

And when I say family-friendly, I mean family. We were out there, cutting it up on the waxed maplewood dance floor. Me and my sister, Grandma and the Aunties and cousins and even, one time, my father. Dinner hadn’t even been served when I abandoned my bright yellow peeptoe heels in favor of flats. Some bridesmaids and groomsmen joined us, but most of them slouched in their plush, velvet chairs and watched, ate, drank.

Everything proceeded according to script. The toasts ran long and sappy, the wine was excellent, and Amanda smeared buttercream frosting all over Steve’s face. I watched and I believed. I believed that this is what they wanted. A big party. Good cheer. A date on the calendar to point to and say, that. That was the happiest day of my life.

But then the wait staff cleared the dessert plates. Somebody cut the lights. And “Sandstorm” emerged from within Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World.” It was followed by “Turn Down for What,” “Get Low,” “Anaconda,” and a rousing rendition of the Wobble. One synth-ridden, beat-dropping remix after another. Club music.

Needless to say, the Aunties took a seat.

But Steve and Amanda and all of their friends, UConn buddies, and childhood besties—children of the ‘90s all—got up from their chairs and got down on the dancefloor. Steve’s mother and aunt rocked the twins to sleep to the sub-beats of Daft Punk, and my dad ordered another beer.

The script was broken.

Later, driving back to the hotel, I wondered about weddings.

I imagined what would have happened if Steve and Amanda had just gone about their business, buying groceries together, working nine to five, raising their children, saving for retirement without the wedding.

Taxes would have been less favorable.

Attempting to introduce each other would have been an exercise in verbal gymnastics.

But mostly, we just would’ve given them shit about it. Why not get married? Make Grandma happy, come on! Ashley’s married. Ryan’s married. Tim is married. What’s the big hold up?

So they gave us what we wanted. Tux and veil. Tax deductions. Uncomplicated delineation for the family tree. Napkin holders and puff pastries and party favors.

But maybe that was all just a performance. The natural consequence of them nodding their heads and letting the family drive the bus. Maybe the club music was not an interruption of The Wedding Reception For The New Mister and Madam Finn, but the only part of the evening that was actually about them. An hour of sonic rebellion. Saying “I do,” on their own terms.

We are coming of age in an era of unprecedented proliferation—proliferation of people, of knowledge, of media, of narrative. The trappings and traditions so important to our parents and their parents and their grandparents become ever narrower when compared with the whole host of accessible human experience. And yes, every generation thinks it brings the revolution, but damned if I don’t think we’re onto something.

Because, when I tell people about my cousin, I say, “On the day Steve married the mother of his children, he wore a pair of socks he won at the World Series of Beer Pong. He threw a cupcake at his brother, and he danced to DJ Snake,” and they are unsurprised.