When I was younger, the code for an unacceptable outfit was Mom clutching her chest and shrieking, “Are you going to WEAR that?”
No, Mom, this was to throw off the paparazzi.
Now that I’m older, I’m just thankful if my clothes cover any body parts that might be offensive to passers by. I appeared at breakfast dressed for work yesterday morning. I sported green stretchy pants that failed to extend to my ankles due to a detour over my midsection, a faded maroon top with waterspots across the peaks. As long as I leaned forward a little, nobody could tell I’d had a C-section.
Son One’s cereal spoon stopped in midair like a Southern mosquito trying to surf a heat wave. He regarded me gravely, “Mom are you gonna wear that?”
“Since when do you take an interest in my clothes?”
“Since you decided to wear my sweatpants.”
It figures. I haven’t turned into my parents.
My kids have.