fathering mothering PARENTING

Spilling Red Wine On My Favorite White Dress

I’ve been buying a lot of clothes lately. It turned out that while I had some professionalish clothes to wear as a teacher, the standards for professional are a little higher when you’re working to garner the respect of teachers, some of whom are significantly older than you. Glasses: on. Heels: on. Jewelry: on. Make-up: let’s not go nuts.

Everyone is sick of hearing me complain about the fact that I had to buy bigger clothes after giving birth (I mentioned recently to my mother-in-law that there was a point during pregnancy at which everything collapsed, and that buoyancy and elasticity of the pre-pregnancy body has yet to rejoin me). In any case, I have been shopping and trying to strategically buy items that will layer and accentuate and professionalize.

I’ve been strutting a little in my new duds, “smelling myself” so to speak. It feels really nice to leave the house feeling pretty and confident. And I’ve worked myself into a little bit of a spending frenzy.

It’s funny how having a one year old can really help put some perspective on things. For one, he doesn’t care even a little bit about what I am wearing. Except maybe, since he is still nursing, he prefers tops that give him easy access to a snack. But truly, that’s his only fashion requirement.

What my one year old does care about is getting his hands in the dog dish, digging in the mud, chewing up fruits, preferably the juiciest ones that leave red stains dripping down his chin and into the folds of his neck.

And then, of course, he cares about hugging me. Because I’m his mama.

All this has got me thinking about my fancy new clothes. Because Murphy’s law says that the moment I put on my snazzy clothes my son wants me to hold him, grimy fingers and all. And of course I hold him, because what I love more than feeling beautiful is feeling loved. And my little boy gives me love by the truck full, more than I could have ever imagined.

My son is the balance to my vanity. So often, in so many ways. Like when I start to get all big in the head, worrying about whether or not to buy the shirt I really really want to buy from Chico’s, but can’t because it is $50, and I start to wonder if I should put it on a credit card, but then start to think about whether I want to go down that road and the spiral starts to spin out of control, just then my son will hold out his hands and wipe them all over me as if to say, “It’s just a shirt, Mama, don’t miss this moment. It’s just a shirt.”

While reflecting on how my son helps me to keep my priorities in order this past week, my family went on vacation to visit my parents in Minnesota. Among other things my mom prepared a beautiful, indulgent dinner in honor of my thirty-first birthday. In celebration, I had put on my favorite white dress with flowers and a coral scarf for a splash of color. Just after sitting down, while being served a slice of tomato pie, a wine glass was knocked over, shattering the glass and spilling red wine all over my favorite white dress.

wine on dress

One final object lesson for my week of rumination.

I changed out of the dress and into sweatpants and laughed the rest of the evening through. And it was probably best, since the elastic waistband of my sweatpants is a forgiving friend on nights filled with the choice between six different flavors of ice cream.

My mom got the stain out of my dress. I’m grateful because it is, after all, my favorite. But it was frosting on the birthday cake, because I had already let the dress go. It’s just a dress.

I wish I could always be this gracious. I wish I could always live my life with open hands. I wish there weren’t so many moments when things got in the way of people. I don’t want to be that person who tells her son not to touch her because she’s wearing her nice clothes. I don’t want to be the person who gets upset when her son comes home with rips in the knees of his school clothes. I don’t want to be owned by what I own. And yet, in that out of control spiral, swiping the plastic card again and again, it is so hard to take a deep breath and say, “Does this really matter, or is it just a dress?”

owned

I haven’t bought the Chico’s shirt. At least not yet. I have enough shirts to clothe a small village. For this second, I have that perspective. I’ll keep you posted about whether or not I buy it tomorrow.

Oh, and for the record, Dawn dish soap works wonders on those tough stains.

261755_10150290602379874_2436766_nRachel

 

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