When you can’t decide, wear them all… a skirt, a dress, a shirt.
How can you not smile? I loved how my girl pushed the boundaries on her outfits.
Muna, in a sweater that I knit for Emery 30 years ago, styled with heart necklaces. I see Emery’s style, her personality and her beauty, every time I look at Muna.
It was a windy spring day, at Kindergarten Roundup, when I learned that my darling Emery, at the tender age of five, did not wear underwear. Ever. While we were waiting outside the school for Kindergarten Roundup, talking with friends, a burst of wind caught her dress, revealing her underwear-free bottom. I couldn’t help but laugh, then quickly scanned the area for reassurance that there were no other witnesses besides my friend, Kate, and her son, who were waiting with us. I assumed it was the excitement of the day’s events that had caused her to forget her underwear that morning. I was wrong.
“I didn’t forget, Mama. It feels better this way.”
Kate, who also saw my bare-bottomed child, told me with a chuckle, “My Eric will never date your Emery!” The gift of her unbridled humor sealed the deal on our friendship that day, and we still laugh about it thirty years later.
After having two sons, I thought having a daughter would be easy. No more warnings about poking eyes out as my sons chased each other around the yard, with sticks as their swords. No more reminding them to quit taking clothes out of the clothes hamper to wear, regardless of how much they liked them, because they were dirty. No more insisting that they put their shirts on right side out with tags in back after repeated choruses of “Why does it matter?” A girl would be easier. Girls liked to braid hair, twirl in their dresses, put on fashion shows with their dolls, and drink pretend tea out of tiny cups. I had to rethink some of those assumptions while contemplating the naked little bottom under the sweet, blue, and white flowered dress…Because it feels better this way.
Before Emery started wearing the underwear that she would eventually stop wearing, I found a tiny pair of panties with roses on them when I went through her school diaper bag. She attended pre-school two days a week, and the teacher had parents leave a diaper bag with an extra set of clothes, underwear, diapers, or pull-ups, just in case. I asked her where the panties came from, and she told me she traded a pull-up for them.
“Katie has a bunch of sisters, Mama, so she’s got lots of pretty panties. I told her she probably needed more pull-ups.”
My daughter was a good negotiator and had definitely traded up. Whereas some parents used sweet treats to encourage potty training, I used tiny, flowered underwear. “You will have your own collection of pretty panties, without having to trade with Katie,” became my bargaining tool to get rid of the diapers, and it worked.
Emery’s style began to develop at a very early age. She knew exactly what she wanted and didn’t want to wear, without my help, thank you very much. Her strong opinions began in preschool, when I stopped trying to control what she wore and instead embraced her desire for independence and her need to showcase her creativity through her outfit choices. I was also tired of arguing. When dropping Emery off at preschool, I learned to ignore the side-eyed glances from the mothers whose daughters wore pastel dresses with matching tights and ribbons in their hair. In contrast, my daughter wore flowers with plaids, dresses over pants, and two dresses at once, all paired with red cowboy boots. I saw a lot of myself in her, but my interest in fashion and expressing myself in my clothing began in junior high, not preschool.
Emery was my third child in five years, and I let go of a lot due to exhaustion. However, I insisted on weather-appropriate winter clothing—coats, hats, and mittens. Emery’s daughter, Muna, is much like her Mama, but shoes are her thing, and she doesn’t want to wear them. The red cowboy boots were saved, and Emery and I both hoped Muna would love them, but she didn’t, because, regardless of how cute they were, they are shoes. Fortunately for her, students leave their shoes in cubbies outside of her classroom in Costa Rica. She’s able to go barefoot, which has been her preference since she was old enough to voice an opinion. Muna has her Mama’s decisive opinions regarding her clothing. The thread continues.
When Emery was in high school, I started using her strong fashion sense to my advantage and would ask her to help me with my closet clean-outs. The one thing I could always count on with Emery was honesty. There was no “That looks cute, Mom,” while her face indicated otherwise. Our sessions would end with a much leaner, more organized closet, along with a kick to my ego as the price of doing business, but I always appreciated her honesty. “Are you sure this dress/skirt/jacket/pants/blouse is not a keeper?” I’d ask hopefully.
“To the pile, Mom. Well, unless you’re going for a Little House on the Prairie look, then, by all means, hang it back up.”
And without hesitation or sentimentality, my beloved Little House on the Prairie pieces would be heaped on a growing pile of What were you thinking?
I was learning a lot more than what was in style or out, what looked good, or what needed to be given away during those sessions. Emery, without knowing it, was teaching me about non-attachment and letting go; lessons that have stayed with me.
Shortly after I got divorced, Emery asked me if she could take me shopping, adding that when I started dating again, I might want a wardrobe refresh. Of course, her taking me shopping meant I paid for what she selected. Her strict terms included me not leaving the dressing room while she brought clothes for me to try on, even if I didn’t like them or thought they were not age-appropriate, unflattering, or didn’t fit my style or budget.
“Those are some strict parameters to follow, Em,” and before I could finish, she said,
“Are you in or not?”
“I’m in.”
Emery was 15. I was 50. I followed her rules, and after a few hours with me sitting in the Nordstrom dressing room and her bringing me items to try on, including a pair of jeans that she insisted I not look at the price, we had a successful day. I had a healthy start on a date-worthy wardrobe, including the jeans, and when I did sneak a look at the price, I wondered who in the world would pay that much for a pair. Well, me, it seems, and those over-priced jeans became my favorites, and I wore them until they became so thin I could no longer trust them when I sat down. My date-worthy wardrobe, much to Emery’s dismay, was primarily worn for evenings out with the girls, but when I did have a date, it was always Emery who dressed me.
It doesn’t seem that long ago that Emery sent me a video of three-year-old Muna, anxious to go outside early morning and play after a night of snow. She had her coat, hat, mittens, and boots on, but no pants; her bare bottom peeked out from the bottom of her jacket. In the video, Emery asked her where her pants were, and Muna responded, “I’m not wearing pants.”
Emery didn’t need to ask why, because her three-year-old self already knew.
Because it feels better this way.