Here’s the piece that I read:

It’s while I’m ironing clothes that I begin to wonder if I’ve finally started to turn into my mother. There was a time in my life that I would have picked clothes up off the floor to wear and not thought twice about it. But iron . . . no. My mom liked to iron clothes while watching TV. One time when I was in high school she was ironing on a Saturday afternoon and I was stuck at home — grounded. We were watching some show about traveling America’s highways and bi-ways. “Oh, I know!” she said, “We should pick one state each summer to visit. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could just pick a state and find all those little off-the-beaten path places we’d like to check out.” “Ok” I said in my deadpan teenager voice, “But I better drive.” “Why?” My mother looked at me puzzled. “Because,” I said raising my eyebrows at her, “There are 50 states and you are going to be pretty old by the time we get through with this – taking these one at a time.” She just laughed undeterred. “Ok,” she said immediately revising her plans, “Maybe we better hit two states each summer.”

A couple years later, when I would come home from my college located clear on the other side of the country, I’d often find my mother wearing a jumper dress. If it was the holidays she would be wearing a holiday jumper dress, usually with a bib and some decorative festive appliqué thingy featured prominently on the bib-by part in front. She may even have a coordinating turtleneck underneath. And maybe even themed shoes. For instance, the jumper would have a big smiling snowman on it and the turtleneck would be covered in tiny little Christmas trees and her slide-on flat shoes would have candy canes on them. I, on the other hand, would be wearing ill-fitting thrift store clothes that I hemmed myself with non-matching thread. The fabrics I leaned toward were the types you didn’t have to iron; stain-resistant nylons and polyesters. I might put together an outfit featuring a purple gingham patterned dress paired with a fuzzy leopard print purse and red clogs. Or, a t-shirt that said, “Born Again Pagan” with an orange polyester A-line skirt. My outfits had to look every bit as ridiculous to her, as hers did to me.

Upon seeing my mom’s outfit I would usually roll my eyes, or say something mildly mean depending on my mood. She would look perturbed but would restrain herself from clobbering me.

All these year later, as I stand here ironing while watching Storage Wars, it occurs to me that I was on some level totally missing the point back then. The point being that I was not my mom’s target audience. She was not dressing for the approval of a smart-ass like me. She was an elementary school teacher; a long-standing veteran of the second grade and to them, her students; her core audience, she must have been magnificent. She was marvelous and fun and loved the holidays with the same unbridled passion they did, feeling no shame in declaring, “Ho, HO, Ho” on the front of her clothing. This is what I failed to understand back then in my fill-a-bag for a dollar wardrobe.

No, I’m not suggesting that I’m going to go buy an appliqué holiday jumper, just don’t be surprised if you catch me wearing candy cane flats.

Today also happens to be my mom’s birthday. She would have been 62 today. Happy Birthday Mom.

What happens to the earlier versions of ourselves? Our kids? Where do they go? When you’re the parent to a small child this feeling is so poignant. You spend hours upon hours with that spirited three-year old, and that person is – in some ways – your closest human relationship, but then they go. They grow. They are no longer that same little person. What is the name for losing that? Where did that little best friend go? What becomes of all that energy that was generated in those moments? The baby that chewed on my chin.  Not that you want any of it to stop going onward, and further, and forward. I’m just wondering what happens to it all? I’d like to think it’s all around like the wind.

I woke up the day after my birthday at a hotel in Tucson and snuck downstairs with Em to get some breakfast. With absolute clarity she said she would like to have steak and eggs. Because she is that kind of a girl. So we got them to split. Her eating most of the steak, me eating most of the eggs. I still have the Super Guppy on my mind from the day before at the Pima Air and Space Museum. My heart feels as lumpy and lofty as this improbable plane.

I have been wearing the same fragrance for 15 years or more, Folavril; worn so often it’s a scent I associate with continuity; with my life. But not that year. That year I wore a different scent that smelled like the ocean wide with possibility and unpredictable. I only just learned that Folavril was inspired by the “savory attraction of the tomato leaf” which is amazing to me because a tomato vine is one of my all time favorite scents (along with slightly burnt toast). It’s funny when you make little discoveries like this in your life. The fact that my love for the scent of the tomato vine has been reflected in my favorite fragrance all along without my being consciously aware of it is reaffirming in a small way. Like you are sniffing out the right path. The tomato vine is closer to the happiness I feel on this rare rainy couple of days in Phoenix when it is cool enough to wear a big sweater and spot rainbows and bake cookies in the afternoon. It smells so good outside. What are your favorite smells?

looks like it’s time to make lemon meringue pies

Days when inner fears and outside threats are in check. When I don’t feel too young, old, restricted, scared, filled with self-loathing, or flip. Just days when I am amoeba. The inside and the outside in harmony and I drink orange cream soda.

Happy Weekend!

I also wrote here this week:

For Likes, Loves, and Exes

Do you believe in Miracles?

My grandma was a beautician. In 1942 at the age of 24 she started her own business — “Thelma’s Beauty Shop” located in downtown Winslow . . . There was a bar right across the street from her shop and Thelma had it fixed so that at 4:00 o’clock the bartender over at the Four Lanes would walk across the street with a cocktail on a tray and deliver it to grandma. Word was you sure wanted to get your hair appointment made before 4:00 just to be on the safe side.

First spotted here, and made over the weekend. Happy Full Hearts to all!