It’s not insipid; it’s the superhero look
Are We There Yet?
Lori Clinch

When the children were smaller, I had a recurring nightmare. I’m sure all young mothers must have it.

It’s the one where you’re in the middle of a social function with the kids and you realize that they’re wearing the wrong clothes. They’re adorned with swim trunks in the middle of a formal. Or, heaven forbid, sporting three-piece suits at their baseball game as they slide headfirst into home plate.

I used to shudder to think.

Now it seems the nightmare has come true. The children have discovered clothing in their closets that I swear I’ve never before laid eyes upon. Torn T-shirts, stained shorts and don’t even get me started on the socks.

I may be overly critical of the outfits that the kids pick out for themselves, but no mother worth her salt would let a child be seen in public in green shorts and a funky bohemian T-shirt. It’s a mother’s responsibility to tell the children when their attire makes them look like a windsock.

It’s gotten so bad that we have to have a changing session every time we leave the house. “Go and put on a different shirt!” I screamed at one of the boys the other day. “You look positively atrocious.”

“But, Mom, this is my favorite T-shirt.”

“It’s stained, wrinkled, and unless panhandling is on the agenda for this afternoon’s events, it simply won’t fit into the day.”

Just then little Charlie ran past in an outfit that looked like a combination for the Brady Bunch and Don Ho.

“Did you have a theme for your outfit today, hon?”

“Yeah,” he said with pride. “Check it out! These clothes make me look like Spider-Man!”

How can you argue with that sort of logic? It takes a great imagination and a lot of confidence to convince yourself on a daily basis that every mismatched outfit makes you look like a superhero.

Lately, however, there’s been a turn of events. It would seem that my style of dressing has become an issue for Huey, our 13-year-old son. I suppose I’ve had it coming to me all of these years. Yet, I don’t feel that turnaround should be fair play.

After all, I don’t remember the Beav ever going up to June Cleaver and saying, “Man, Mom, that shirt makes you look insipid.”

I blame culture, and of course the kids’ English teacher, for teaching him words like “insipid.”

It makes a mother feel self-conscious when her child has the audacity to say, “Mom, your shorts are too long, you look ridiculous,” or, “Mom, those pants make your feet look big.” And what about the infamous, “Mother! What sort of thought process led up to wearing those flip-flops with those short pants?”

The other night, after a weeklong stint of hard work that limited my attire to work rags and pain-stained running shoes, we decided to get out of the house and have some fun. I ran to the closet, giddy with joy at the prospect of being fashionable. After careful consideration and a 30-minute try-on session to eliminate the fat clothes, I left the house feeling like a $10 bill.

Once we got to the park, I fussed with my hair, applied some lipstick and got out of the car feeling fine and walking tall.

Thirty seconds hadn’t passed before young Huey appeared at my elbow. He was looking all around him as if he were afraid someone would notice him talking to me. “Mom,” he whispered with his back to me, “why are you wearing red shorts?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” I whispered back, “but I think it’s because I thought they’d look cute with my white shirt.”

“Well, have you noticed that no one else is wearing red shorts?” he acted as if he was an undercover agent and I was his contact. “Look around you. You’re like the only one. You could quite possibly be the only person in the whole world who is wearing red shorts at this very moment.”

“Do you want me to go into hiding?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now.” And with that he walked away.

I could have run to the car. I could have hung my head in shame. But I decided to walk the walk and do the talk, and follow in the footsteps of our 8-year-old. I may have looked ridiculous. But sometimes it’s fun to convince one’s self that one looks like a superhero.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is lclinch@charter.net.