MORNINGS WITH CHILDREN, TAKE 2

It's a sentimental kind of morning and, as I look at this little piece--and another that seems oddly similar--I'm remembering how important it was that you sweet girls dress appropriately every single day. And, when I say "every single day" that did include Saturday and Sunday. And it was very important. Both Darrell and my parental reputations demanded it. On second thought I'm not sure that's right. It was probably only my parental reputation that was on the line. Fathers normally got a pass on this one. But, by the same token, your Dad did want you to look nice and be dressed well. He was cute that way.

As I edited these two similar pieces, it occurred to me that clothing issues--during my Mom days--popped up every morning. That would mean seven mornings a week times three daughters which, when multiplied, yielded twenty-one mornings of hell every seven days. I'll jump a little ahead and say that Michael never participated in the clothing crises that erupted in our house for years.. He never cared what he wore or (more often) didn't wear, and no amount of my obvious distress moved him.

A few years ago, both Mickie and Amy were a little gobsmacked about how their boys were becoming very particular about their clothes. Jackson was 12 and Collin was 11. We texted a bit and I laughed, remembering that you girls could be sooo picky about your clothes for school, or anywhere else. Obviously, it's been easier to laugh about this now,  than all those years ago when I was just a young thing. As you might remember, I didn't laugh at all then.

Now, for the combined story...

 "Our two little ones share a room, share a closet and, when they're on speaking terms, share their clothes. However, Mommy never knows what those terms might be until I lay out the day's garb.

'Why are you gonna let Kristi wear my dress?' asks Mickie.

'Because you wore one of her dresses yesterday, and it's fair to share.'

'Yeah, Mickie, that's right,' quoted Kristi.

'Oh well, I wanted to wear shorts today anyway,' Mickie answered...

 Another Day: Me: 'Kristi you're going to wear this jumper.'

'But I don't like that jumper.'

'WEAR IT!

LATER IN THE WEEK: Kristi: 'That dress of Mickie's is too short for me. Everyone would see my underpants.'

'Not if you wear tights.'

'But when I wear tights my legs get too hot at school.'

'Well Kristi,' through clenched teeth, 'What do you want: sweaty legs or a night in jail for exhibitionism?'

'I want to wear my pink dress.'

'Your pink dress is held in reserve for bonfire nights and state occasions.'

'I'd be real careful...I'd even do my arithmetic really slow so that I won't get to go out for recess.'

'You'll wear Mickie's dress--the one I laid out for you. Wear your tights, and do your math at your regular speed. Now, get dressed. You've got two minutes.'

A FEW MINUTES LATER: It is time to enter the real lion's den. Finding clothes for a ten-year old is never a completely simple matter, but when she strings on the side for "Women's Wear Daily"  it becomes well nigh impossible.

During the time I've known my oldest daughter she was neatness-plus. She wore nothing that had the slightest spot, tear or irregularity. A piece of lint on a knit skirt could throw her into a tizzy. In her eyes, an unpolished shoe was the height of decadence.

For example: 'Mother--I can't wear this dress you laid out. It has a spot on it.'

Mother replies: 'A spot! Impossible! I didn't go to college for four years just to turn out spotty wash. Where is it? I can't see a thing.'

Daughter counters: 'Right there. Right below the third orange horizontal stripe and to the left of the blue vertical stripe.'

Mother again: 'I still can't see it. Let me get the magnifying glass...my eyes aren't what they used to be, you know. It's ironing in poor light, and the sewing and the vacuuming, cooking..'.

Daughter: 'Mother! You're reading Germaine Greer again. The melodrama isn't cute.'

Mother: 'WEAR IT!'

The following morning the same daughter announces: 'Mother, I can't wear this dress you laid out. It's been mended.'

Mother: 'Of course it's been mended and, if I do say so myself, a Home-Ec major could not have done better!'

Daughter: 'But Mother...You used red thread'.

Mother: 'On a red dress you wanted maybe purple?'

Daughter: 'The manufacturer of this dress saw fit to sew the entire thing with colorless plastic thread. Why did you move in with red?'

Mother: 'I sewed once with plastic thread. It comes off the spool in stiff coils--tenacious little coils. I dropped the spool and the thread leapt up...got me around the neck with a grip that would make a boa constrictor envious. Believe me, Mama is not ready for the cold, cold ground yet. WEAR THE DRESS.'

SOME MONTHS LATER: I entered Denise's room where, much to my shock, she was posing in front of her mirror wearing a pair of jeans that had been stolen from our rag box, and a sweatshirt abandoned by her father.

'What are you doing?' I gasped. 'No--What are you wearing? Oh, good grief. You're dropping out. It's not time yet! You've got to be at least fifteen to be unhappy enough to drop out!'

'Mother, don't try to be cute. I'm dressing for school.'

'In those clothes??? That outfit would be rejected by a naked Tibetan in the middle of winter. Are you sure you're feeling well?'

'Mother, this is an 'in' outfit.'

''In' what? In the garbage--yes. In the school--over my dead body.'

'Mother, don't be rash. This is what everyone is wearing. I'd be laughed out of class if I wore something clean, something ironed, or something new. Mother...This is where it's at.'

'Is this the gratitude I get? I've ironed your ruffles, your lace, your permanent press. Do you have any idea that it takes more calories to iron than to lay brick? Where are the rewards I was promised? The hours I've slaved and...for what? 

'Now you're reading too much Joan Didion, mother. I promise you that I am the height of fashion.'

And now, Kristi and Mickie come in, and immediately scream: 'Hey Denise! That is a BOSS outfit. Cool, Denise. Cool'

And then they walked out the door heading to school. I poured a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Then, walked to Denise's mirror. My jeans had been purchased ten years ago. My old college sweatshirt was so faded I couldn't tell where I had gone to school. Well...I thought to myself...Mama, You're BOSS. Really BOSS.

I hold my head high at the grocery store now. In fact, I kind of pity those women with the manicured nails, carefully coiffed hair, and oh-so-perfect pantsuits. They don't know yet, but they're not BOSS. And, they're not nearly as comfortable as I am. BOSS is good.

Remember...I never said these little pieces were good. But, they did give me an outlet. I do remember that, as you grew up, you became even more particular about what you wore and how clean you were. I remember being just a little frustrated when--if an item of clothing had touched any part of your body, no matter how briefly--it was dirty and thrown to the floor. (Sometimes into the pile that already existed in your room, sometimes beside it, and sometimes out the door and into the hallway.) I hated that because--as you, perhaps, have learned--it meant that it had to be washed again. And, in those days, ironed again. Neatly folded again. And, carefully laid on the steps for you to carry to your room...someday. Or, more often, for Michael to crawl up a step or two and, laughing delightedly, take your piles apart one item by one item and throw them down to the living room. You know, I didn't even drink very much in those days. I don't think, anyway. Maybe I've simply forgotten. As we all know, there were four of you. Sometimes it seemed like a lot.

June 8, 2017