What Not To Wear

If I had to pinpoint a single moment in time that launched the nearly lifelong rebellion against my mother it would when I began resisting her efforts to get me dressed on the couch one sunny September morning on what was to be my first day of kindergarten.  Yes, that is pretty early to start rebelling.  What can I say?  I was precocious.  The argument stemmed from a disagreement on fashion.  That age old question of what to wear to make a good first impression had reared its ugly head, and much to my mother’s consternation, I felt absolutely capable of answering it, without her help, input, or approval.  Here was the problem:  I had been watching quite a bit of B.J. and the Bear.  Not to discount all the mischief and mayhem a trucker and his pet chimp can get into, B.J.’s fashion choices spoke to me somewhere deep within my soul.  The trucker sometimes wore a denim jacket, to compliment his carefully crafted feathered-back hair and impossibly large and shiny belt buckles.  I don’t know how I had lucked into this unbelievably hip item of clothing, but there it was, right in my mother’s hands…a small denim jacket.  This was incredible.  I mean, I didn’t have the belt buckle or the chimp, and my blonde hair fell straight to my waist in slight waves (no feathering happening there) but I thought the denim jacket might just be able to carry me.  So on this all important day, the day I would embark upon my career as an academic student, my mother was first puzzled, and then infuriated to find her mild and normally compliant youngest child had turned into a combative, screaming banshee.  What was all the fuss?  Well, B.J. wore his denim jacket with nothing on underneath…and I wanted to do the same.

To give my mother credit, she tried several times to calmly, and quietly, explain to me that going to school bare chested was not socially acceptable behavior for a five year old girl.  Each time she finished stating this in one way or another, I’d look down at my chest and remain as confused as ever.  Why couldn’t I go barechested?  My chest didn’t look any different than B.J.’s, as least as far as I could tell. 

In much the same way, I tried to make my mother understand fashion.  In my limited vocabulary, I tried to get it across to her that if I wore that cool denim jacket over a shirt, it just wouldn’t look right.  She listened to my protestations, whining, and general upheaval with a look on her face that surely matched my own…what in the world is she talking about?

Now, my mother was, and still is, a formidable lady.  She likes to have her way, and does so the majority of the time.  This day in question was no exception.  The matter was swiftly decided.  After all, she did outweigh me by nearly 100 pounds.  That afternoon, walking with her, hand in hand, into my kindergarten classroom, covered modestly in a shirt under my denim jacket, I felt ridiculous, stifled, and more than a little resentful.  Somewhere in the back of my innocent five year old’s mind was the dawning realization that this woman and I just didn’t understand each other at all.  We didn’t even speak the same language.

I am not here to defend my attempt at attending school topless at the tender age of five.  My mother’s advice –and ultimate overruling of my wishes– was sound.  That was, however, the very first time I can remember thinking that I knew more than she did.  Perhaps, about the shock value of denim on bare skin, I did…but not about much else.  There were volumes about the world’s workings that she knew and I didn’t.  Unfortunately, it would be nearly 30 years before I wised up enough to begin asking for, and occasionally even taking, her advice.

            By the time my mom picked me up at the end of the day, the incident was all but forgotten.  I yakked her ear off about my new teacher, the girl in my class who had my very same name, and the glories of school paste.  No grudges on either side were harbored.  I still snuck into her bed and cuddled up against her after my 5 a.m. oatmeal date with my dad before he went to work each day.  Sometimes, on Saturday mornings, we’d make a tent in her bed with blankets and make up stories.  Being so much younger than my sisters, I was practically an only child.  I was a lone little chick in the nest.  This meant my sisters, and eventually their husbands, doted on me as practice for the children they would soon have.  It also meant my parents could afford to spoil me rotten, which they inarguably did.  My dad had dubbed me “the baby” and I was only to happy to oblige every privilege that came with the name.

The denim jacket showdown was our first battle of wills, but certainly not our last.  In the coming years, there would be countless duels over what I could wear, where I could go, what I could do, and with whom I could spend my free time- much like the average teenage girl and her mother.  The sad thing that happened along the way is that my mother and I stopped talking to each other.  Of course, I acknowledge that teenagers will –and probably should– naturally begin to distance themselves from their parents to make that upcoming break when they leave the nest a little less abrasive.  Our distancing might have been a little more intense for a couple of reasons.

First of all, what I could and couldn't do depending largely on the teachings of the church we attended. This was hard to swallow, considering I was a teenager who ached to hold the reins of my life in my own hands (and drive it mindlessly into the nearest concrete wall), and had the ludicrous notion that something as important as religious beliefs should be something I chose on my own- versus having them imposed on me.  It was crushing enough already that I couldn’t go to the movies, go bowling, wear jewelry or makeup like every other girl I knew, but on top of those  restrictions, I didn’t understand or agree with the religion that said I couldn’t.

What these restrictions unfortunately meant for me, and had meant for my sisters before me, was that our social interactions were narrowed even further from an already narrow pool of experiences. My mom and dad were both shy, to say the least.  My mom was not always at ease in large groups, and my dad wrote the book on introversion.  Give him a garden and some solitude, and he’d likely never leave home again.  I had the very definition of a sheltered life.

As far as the relationship between my mother and I went, intense was a word that would embody my teenage years well.  Looking back, I think my mom may have been a little frightened to lose control in any way.  Face it, as I grew up, I was getting bigger and harder to handle.  I was becoming more articulate, and my arguments– while never welcome– at least made more sense.  My mom’s response in the face of such insubordination was to batten down the hatches.  She was going to –at all costs– show me just who was in charge of this shooting match.  She would have me under her thumb if it was the last thing she did. 

And for the most part, she did just that.  What’s sad is that while she was busy controlling me, she forgot to talk to me, and to make it clear that I could talk to her.  Often when she did talk to me, she talked at me-  a simple directive to do something (or not to).  As my attachment to her waxed and waned, I stopped wanting to please her, and began fantasizing about the day I’d make my own choices and spend my time talking to someone who wanted to know just what it was that I was thinking and how I felt about it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I was not innocent in all of this.  I was certainly disrespectful at times and took vicious pleasure in doing the one thing that completely undid my mother…talking back.  To her, it was truly the highest of offenses.  It drove her into such an absolute fury that she couldn’t see straight or even recognize the child standing before her as her own.  Literally, she wouldn’t even acknowledge me by name.  In the midst of these grapplings for power, I became “missy” and most often, the name I absolutely despised….”girl”.  To be stripped of my name by the woman who had given it to me in the first place made all those tents, all those silly stories, all those mornings spent cuddling just go up like smoke.  Poof.  It made it easy to walk away, without a thought to what I might be doing to our relationship as I did so.  And walk away I did, the very first chance I got…with the one boy on the planet she abhorred.

The irony of it all when I look back now is that I could’ve saved myself a lifetime of heartache and suffering had I listened to her at least once in my adolescence.  She couldn’t stand Bob from the moment she first laid eyes on him.  She found him to be –how should I say– socially unacceptable.  Communicated in a directive or not, she knew what she was talking about that time.  But, then again,  if I had not rebelled against her wishes, I would’ve never been given my true soulmate, my daughter, Corinne Nicole, the love of my life.

In recent years, I have discovered my mother to be one of my best supports and dearest confidantes.  I wish we could stayed this close through all the years, cause I love her to my very bones, and I have a feeling she still makes a kick butt blanket tent.  She is an amazing woman, well demonstrated by the fact that she snagged my father…the best man I know.