My closest childhood friend was married in Laguna Beach, Calif., this past weekend and all four of my children were in the wedding. My daughters were flower girls and my sons were ring bearers, or gummy bears, as my 4-year-old said with authority.

Six months ago, this seemed like a wonderful alternative to stuffing myself into a bridesmaid’s dress. Four children later, and into my 30s, it seemed absurd to imagine putting on some pastel number and marching down the aisle.

But as I recover from the weekend, I realize that I was misguided. What is really is so difficult about wearing any sort of dress in front of a few hundred people you don’t know? Compared to schlepping my four children across the country, stuffing them into fancy dresses and suits, praying they made it down the aisle without incidents, and then hoping they would stay quiet during the ceremony — let’s just say that the bridesmaid option now seems relatively painless.

I first realized that I was in trouble when I bought the boys their outfits for the wedding. “Do they already have blazers that we can work with?” the saleswoman asked me.

“No, they don’t,” I said sheepishly.

“Are their dressy shoes black or brown?” she asked me.

“They only have sneakers,” I admitted. She knew better than to ask me if they had belts.

When I finally got the blazers and bow ties and belts home, I had a whole other set of issues to face. “I’m not wearing that little tie thingy,” one of them said. “I’m not trying any of it on,” the other one piped in.

The girls, on the other hand, were thrilled when their dresses arrived. They were overjoyed to see every layer of crinoline, delighted to see the ivory patent leather shoes that matched the dresses, and tickled by the fancy ruffled socks.

This was until the older one decided that the dress was itchy. Watching her sister writhe on the floor in hysterics, my youngest child, just 2 years old, didn’t know what to do. But a few seconds later, she too was flinging herself around on the ground, yelling “icky” at the top of her lungs.

I stuffed all the clothes into a big hanging bag and put them at the back of the closet. It was the beginning of May and I had other things to worry about.

Before I knew it, the end of June arrived and it was time to pack up for the wedding weekend.

“Tell me again, why are we bringing the kids with us?” my husband asked me as I pulled out a big suitcase last week. “Let’s just go and have a romantic weekend,” he suggested sweetly.

The romantic weekend sounded so much more appealing than flying five or six hours each way with the gang, that I momentarily imagined the weekend. Sleeping late, reading a book by the pool, drinking several glasses of Champagne at the wedding. …

“We have no choice but to bring the kids,” I told him, irritated. “You know that.”

He looked glum.

I became obsessed with packing only one suitcase. Yes, there were six of us. But it was just for a few days. One bathing suit each, a few pairs of shorts and T-shirts, one sweatshirt, and all the wedding clothes. I actually did manage to stuff it all into one suitcase — which must have weighed at least 75 pounds, 25 more than the newly allotted 50-pound maximum that airports allow.

Luggage, a big hanging bag, four children, and a partridge in a pear tree: We arrived at the airport at the crack of dawn, already tired and grumpy. We survived the airplane ride, and the long drive to the hotel. The kids behaved well enough at the rehearsal dinner.

When the time came, the boys put on their wedding clothes — bow ties and belts — without any complaints. The girls were too excited to remember that the dresses were itchy. There were plenty of oohs and aahs and sweet sighs as they marched down the aisle.

My 2-year-old, who I was most worried wouldn’t make it, stole the show. She took her sweet time throwing petals left and right, right and left. At the end of the aisle, she just stood there and smiled, dropping more and more petals until finally my husband had to retrieve her. Amazingly, all four of them sat beautifully during the ceremony.

And then the wedding was, like all weddings, over before it began. It was time to bring the troops back to the East Coast. Luggage, four children, and a partridge in a pear tree: We arrived at the airport.

“When am I going to be a flower girl again?” the 4-year-old asked, as we peeled off our flip-flops and Crocs going through security.

“I don’t know, Kira. Probably not for a long time,” I said.

She looked glum. My husband and I, on the other hand, smiled at each other. Almost home.

sarasberman@aol.com