Speaking of fashion, I got some money for my birthday (thanks to parents and grandma) and took myself to Ann Taylor Loft, where I can be assured of fit and trend, despite my sister’s complaint that the store offered very little that was cute or wearable this season. Sadly, it was true, but I managed to find a couple of tops — yes, one was showing on a hanger, a white shirt with a pink sweater, and yes, you’d think I could figure that out, but alas, we know what a dork I am when it comes to fashion sense.
After buying some new underwear from that pink store, I was like a new woman. I do this every season, since my clothes usually get wrecked by the fourth wearing, stained with pasta sauce or markers (washable, smashable). So I get a few new things, they get ruined, and the cycle continues. The life of at-home moms everywhere.
Today I worked out, showered, and felt good. I was looking forward to wearing something new to reflect my perky mood, and gazed into my tiny closet. What to pick? It all seemed too nice for my life. I mean, why waste nice on my kids, home for a day off from school? Mitzi is a big supporter of my wardrobe, especially when I put on something “pretty” (read, “clean”). But they don’t care too much what I look like. In fact they’d rather I didn’t wear anything but sweats, since when I do I am less likely to be fun.
Nice clothes make it difficult to do what we do. Today we may go for a walk around the neighborhood, then play in the backyard, soccer, monkey bars, tag. Maybe we’ll do some yard work. Clearly, my new clothes are not the best choice for a day at the Estes zoo. I don’t mind too much, because it’s pretty fun, having fun all day (okay, it’s not all fun and games, see my earlier posts).
So in the closet they stay, waiting for a night out, or a day with anyone over four feet tall. I just feel badly for Ray, who never sees me at my best any more. Sometimes on the weekend, if I’ve done my own “nice clothes” special load laundry, which happens once a month or so. Most days, in the morning, it’s my pre-shower duds, sweats or jeans, waiting for the bus clothes. By the time he gets home I’ve changed a few times, maybe even gotten that shower, but am back to being disheveled and smelly after a day of wrestling with children. I know it doesn’t matter to him. Some days I rouse myself to reapplying perfume or brushing my teeth before he walks through the door, and I’m sure he appreciates that (since I’m pretty sure I never get to brush my teeth before he kisses me goodbye in the morning). But it doesn’t matter. He seems to like me in spite of my appearance (I mean, we do have four kids, after all).
My mom says, when he looks at her, my dad claims to see only the teenager with whom he fell in love. How true that is I couldn’t say. But I understand the message, and know that it’s the same for Ray. It’s the package, not the packaging, that he loves.
But darn it. My new clothes are pretty nice. I hope to get a chance to wear them some day soon.