Real vs. Fake

I have reached a milestone in my life, one that many mothers go through. First grey hair? No. Send kids to private or public school? No. I am speaking, my friends of real vs. fake, pants that is.

My ‘fake’ pants are a pair of yoga pants that have never seen, and probably never will see a yoga mat. I picked up this term from my sister. I will call her to go shopping, and her response often is: ‘Well, ok, but I don’t look cute. I’m not wearing makeup or real pants’. Now that I am a stay at home mom I have the daily quandary of which to wear, real or fake. This entails a complex algorithm that includes the activities of the day. Appointments for any of Anya’s care move the decision closer to real pants. Lack of seeing anyone I do not live with move it closer to fake. I also take into consideration when I was able to achieve taking a shower, and if wearing fake pants will make me more likely to walk on the treadmill.

This has never been a problem for me before. I could never be accused of being a fashion maven. For most of my life I only wanted to be appropriately dressed. I didn’t want to stand out, actually blending in would be better. In high school my wardrobe consisted of jeans, t-shirts worn with a flannel shirt, and shit-kicker shoes. College taught me that wearing nice pants and shoes equaled more confidence when testing or giving a presentation. When I started my first non-scrub-requiring nursing job I used that lesson. We were critiqued frequently and I felt more comfortable dressing a bit better than I was expected to. Many co-workers dressed very casually in exercise clothes. I never understood how someone could be expected to be taken seriously while wearing a track suit.

So now I find myself rationalizing that I can wear fake pants every day. This was an easy decision when I was staying in the hospital with Anya recently: fake all the way. I could try to sleep comfortably without wearing pajamas, and if I had to meet with any doctors I would still be wearing clothes. Right before she went into the hospital I had bought a bunch of active wear shirts to go with my fake pants, so I felt cute. Cuteness was reinforced when two young men tried to hit on me when I was doing some Christmas shopping at the Galleria. Usually this would have embarrassed me terribly. That day, covered in hospital funk it made my week.

I have had a pair of pants hanging up in my closet for about a year. I have never worn them out. They are a great color and length; they don’t cling to my thighs, the perfect pants. They were marketed as, and sold, as dress pants. The problem is they don’t have a zipper or button; they are slip on pants. They feel exactly like fake pants. I should wear them all the time. The problem is they make me feel like I am wearing fake pants, so wearing them out to dinner or to church just feels wrong. I watch people wearing dresses and tennis shoes together and wonder why I care so much.

I wore fake pants down on Main Street  St. Charles one Saturday evening for Christmas Traditions, I rationalized that I was walking so fake pants were appropriate. (Yes, I usually wear real pants when shopping) I was very confused when I mentioned the fake pants I was wearing, and my cousin commented he thought they were dress pants. He owns and runs a successful boutique on Main St that sells women’s fashions, so he should know.

Maybe he should start making and selling women’s fake dress pants for all occasions. I could be a consultant! Until then I guess I am stuck with my daily algorithm… real or fake?

Why this is a good thing

Nearly every woman has uttered the phrase: 'I am becoming my mother.' It is a ubiquitous statement, something to be joked about or even feared. Occasionally you may find someone who says it with pride, but that is rare. To become one's mother means you are slipping into middle age, no longer able to claim you are too young to know better. Responsibilities abound, and you find yourself acting like the first authority figure you ever knew: Mom.

When my first child, Arwen, was born, I was working full time. I had just started a new job and thus was unable to take more than six weeks of maternity leave. I was completely torn in two about my situation, I had not reconciled myself yet to the idea that I would be a working mother. My own mother had stayed home and what's more had always touted the importance of staying home. Over time I became used to the idea of working, and even saw strengths in the arrangement for my child. Another truth was revealed: you cannot expect a college educated woman who enjoys her career to turn that drive off for years while her children grow up. I had made my choice years before I had planned having children.

 I was spared any comments from my mother, because she died of lung cancer when I was eighteen. I sometimes question what she would have thought about the choices I have made. My mother had a different set of expectations for herself than was set up for me. She never aspired to go to college, but she expected me to. She was proud I wanted to be a nurse. Therefore I expect that she would have been proud of what I have achieved.

As soon as I had Arwen memories came flooding back at me. When I was about ten there were a lot of babies born in the family, and Mom coached me on caring for them. Unasked-for advice and wisdom popped into my head routinely. Being mother to a daughter healed part of my heart.

 Still, my parenting experience was different from Mom's. Shortly after Arwen was born Dad started getting sick more and more often, and I had more responsibility in helping him navigate his health care. I was the sandwich generation, and I wasn't even thirty.

 Anya's care has required me to stay home, in a very fortuitous situation where I stay at home with my kids as well as use my nursing skills. Since I quit working I feel a closer tie to the mother my Mom was. I am becoming my mother, and it is both strange and wonderful. I have more insight into her life than I ever have had before. My mother also had very unique skills to teach: overcoming adversity, raising a family on three hours of sleep or less, and how NOT to stain the stairs to the basement (make sure you don't stain yourself into the basement).

 This is my blog about family life, that and whatever pops into my head.