My Mother's Clothes

At some point, one of my siblings noticed that my mom wore high-water pants. When pointed out, I noticed it as well. When she walked, the bottoms of her pants danced somewhere north of that little bone that juts out on your ankle.

This was not the only problem with my mom's clothes. Really, it was more like the final straw. Having bad knees requiring lots of surgeries throughout my childhood, she wore orthopedic shoes and heavy support hose. Her outer attire consisted of polyester tops and polyester bottoms, which fit snugly. In the summer, she had a couple of shapeless sundresses, which must once have been in fashion. Sometimes, she wore her curlers out to do shopping—sometimes with a sheer handkerchief tied around them, sometimes not.

But before stepping out of the house, she always put on her lipstick.

When I was very young, I thought my mom was beautiful, like all kids do. This persisted until I was around 11 or 12, when the high waters were noticed. This fit hand-in-glove with my impossible-to-escape embarrassment to be seen with or talk to my mom anywhere for any reason. I was glad of the high-waters, because that was something we could point to. And we did. And we laughed. As she walked ahead of us into the grocery store, polyester pants and curlered head, we simpered, trailing far enough behind her to chuckle unnoticed behind our hands at her utter absurdity. In our minds, she was as completely oblivious of our mockery as she was about dressing!

For the holidays, she had the same outfits that she cycled through. For Christmas, it was the white polyester pantsuit with the green solid squares interspersed with black open squares. For Easter, it was a purplish floral affair—a kind of swaying dress that defies description. My dad was always good at having the camera out for events big and small, and so he of course took her picture every holiday. When she came downstairs in her outfit, my dad would always express his appreciation. If he were feeling frisky, he would whistle. If more subdued, he would just say, "wow." He would ask her to stand against the fireplace or our front window, and take a snap. She would stand with her hands behind her back, smiling. I liked this.

Time passed, and we grew up and out of the house. My mom went back to work when my youngest sister started grade school.  After college, on visits home for holidays and other family parties, I started noticing something: my mom's clothes. I would be so surprised at what she was wearing that I'd compliment it.

"Do you really like it?," she'd say, brightening immediately. "Your dad picked it out." I would demand that she stand up and show me properly and she would, pursing her lips and squinting her eyes in a faux "aren't-I-pretty?" way that would make me laugh. Often, she would twirl all the way around, with her arms slightly akimbo so I could get a really good look.  Sometimes she would ask me if something weren't "too loud" (my dad favored floral and animal prints), and I would assure her it wasn't. Soon, I noticed that she actually had cute clothes, and that they fit properly. Even later, I realized that one of the joys of their lives was for my dad to go out and buy clothes for my mom. Later still, my mom discovered an enjoyment she either never possessed before or had long since forgotten in the fog of having-ten-children-war: the enjoyment of looking at, trying on, and buying clothes for herself.

Nowadays, I try and remember to always comment on at least one element of my mom's outfits. It never fails to elicit an immediate and pleasurable reaction on her part. And she always tells me the story of how the whole outfit—piece by piece—came into her possession: whether my dad bought it for her and for what occasion, if she bought it and the great deal she got, or if my sister Margie—who knits like a demon—made it for her. These are some of my favorite conversations with my mom.

And in my head, I laugh in disgust at those rotten kids she had. To think that it never occurred to us that she might not have been wearing what she wanted to wear, but that she was wearing what she had. That she decided it was better to put the resources we had towards food, education, heat, etc. I guess I never thought of it for a very simple reason: she never mentioned it.

I am no longer a child, so I no longer think my mom is beautiful or has good fashion sense. Instead, I know it. And I know these qualities are nothing compared to the strength of her character.