Exposé: He doesn’t want a collard shirt

One of my kids just had a growth spurt. With both babies and teens, it’s amazing how they can seem to change form when you look away for a mere moment. I’ve been helping him go through his wardrobe and purge those garments that no longer fit.

Though I often purchase almost every type of item—even fitted clothing—online, add to my list of pandemic anomalies not going to a shoe store to get a son’s feet measured when he’s obviously grown more than just one size. This fact was easier to miss than usual with everyone working remotely, wearing slippers more often than outerwear. SF wardrobe slippers Soft Star

FYI: I was very successful using the printable sizing template from the Oregon company, Soft Star Shoes. The “elves” there make most of our leather slippers. My son ended up with new footwear from two different brands that fit well thanks to that tool.

As it happens, this child is considering a school with a more formal dress code for next year. Collared shirts, dress trousers or khakis, and leather shoes would be a daily requirement. Looking ahead to that possibility, I plan to replace some of his outgrown t-shirts with button front oxfords and a second pair of hiking sneakers with more formal brown or black shoes.plaid collar of shirt visible above jacket neckline

Fortunately, this is a kid who enjoys dressing up. He’s been a bow tie guy since he was little and has a nifty collection of them now mostly silk, but pre-tied. I haven’t had the heart to tell him yet that men wear a larger tie to suit their broader faces, and these will soon be outgrown, too.

Pro Travel Tip for Bow Tie Aficionados: a jumbo, hard-sided eyeglass case makes the perfect protective “suitcase” to keep spiffy pre-tied neckwear from being crushed in transit.

7 colorful bow ties in acrylic storage case next to yellow tie in a protective eyeglass case

Just for fun, here’s a particularly sentimental bow tie of the skinny, Colonel Sanders variety that’s now in my son’s collection. It was my maternal grandfather’s originally, from the Oregon Centennial celebration in 1959, and we found it amongst my mother’s treasures when I emptied her closet after her death.

There was no dissent in the family about which of Mom’s grandsons would be most likely to wear this commemorative novelty neckwear! I don’t recall my grandfather ever wearing it in my presence, though he was a bolo tie guy when he would join us at church in my youth. Come to think of it, Grandpa rocked a bow tie on special occasions, too, so my kid is in good company.

My son prefers suspenders to belts with his suits, striking that distinctive old-school lawyer-in-the-courtroom pose as soon as he’s dressed à la Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch. As early as the elementary grades, he was sincerely delighted to receive clothes as gifts… if they were flashy items like a velvet blazer, a mini tuxedo, or a new fedora.

Suffice to say, this is a child who likes to wear clothes that garner attention. It’s a skill he developed well before learning to tie his own shoes.young child in white oxford, yellow bow tie, and top hat

It was in this context that I brought up clothes shopping over lunch with the kids. I was nagging them to sort through the shoes strewn about the mudroom, refusing to buy new boots for the one whose feet were getting wet in sneakers on every slushy February walk until this dull but necessary task was done.

With the outgrown ones underfoot, there was no room to put away new shoes. Also, someone will be grateful for hand-me-down boots in excellent condition. One side effect of growing so fast is that few items are worn out before they need a new home.

I want to see everything that currently fits you before I start shopping for anything new,” I explained to my reluctant young assistant in the endeavor.

I think I need to get you some more collared shirts, too,” I added to my sharp-dresser. “You might need them for school next year and it’s not like you can’t wear one instead of a t-shirt working from home this spring.”

His response?

Collard shirts? Heck no, I want bok choi shirts!”

Green leaf of collard laid out on a purple towel

Collard shirts? Heck, no, I want bok choi shirts!

Amidst thunderous eye rolling, loss of my appetite, and a chorus of groans, DS1 tried to flee the room, but I kinda sorta got them to agree to work on the clothing sorting project before anyone enjoyed any video games over the weekend.

And you got to enjoy my dear child’s most dreadful pun yet of the pandemic.

COVID-19 brings the wimple back to modern wardrobes

I had my mask pushed down beneath my chin as I did housework today, moving between the shared* stairwell and the privacy of my bedroom.

purple fabric mask pushed below the chin on woman's faceStartling myself as I passed a mirror on the wall, I realized something amazing: COVID-19 has brought the wimple back!

Unless, like me and myriad members of the SCA, you’ve dabbled in the study of medieval clothing construction, you may not think you are familiar with the garment known as a wimple. If you can visualize a nun in an old school habit, however, you may be more familiar with the wimple than you think.

woman in long, grey tunic with white veil covering hair and wimple beneath the chinHere’s me wearing a wool tunic with a white linen wimple and veil that I made many years ago. Because I was interested in how these garments went together during the Middle Ages, this head gear is pinned in place with simple straight pins. Confession: I feel fearful every moment I’m wearing straight pins upon my body! Thankfully, my modern mask requires no such piercing fasteners.

Orthodox Jewish women today still generally elect to wear only garments that obscure their collarbones, but most of us no longer feel the neck is a private part demanding coverage for modesty’s sake. The wimple is perhaps the last article of clothing I thought I’d see making a comeback in my lifetime.

Then again, it does do wonders to camouflage an aging neck. Perhaps Nora Ephron should have tried one?

Given the pandemic’s decimation of the trouser market, maybe fashion designers should explore exotic swaddlings for the head and neck in search of more robust sales. Designer sweatpants are a real thing now; why not wimples?

Because two of us are going out into the world daily for in person schooling, we are keeping social distance and wearing face coverings in most rooms in our multi-generational, “single family” home, having effectively split into two “bubbles.”

Real world Valentines, or, “There’s something weird on the toilet”

My husband always remembers to buy me flowers.

I lead with this fact because I’m well aware that not all spouses are as:

  1. generous with their displays of affection, and
  2. organized with their time

as my not-quite-perfect-yet-perfect-for-me husband. In a world where partner-bashing could be a professional sport, I like to clear a space to express my inter-personal gratitude and all the ways that our relationship makes my life better.

Here’s hoping I’m half as well appreciated by him! I’m also quite definitely imperfect, after all.

But this isn’t going to be a post about my “perfect” husband’s grand romantic gestures for Valentine’s Day. Instead, I’m moved to write about the imperfect intersection of family life, daily reality, and romance. Odd bedfellows, indeed!

I’ve told my husband about a million times that he doesn’t have to battle the crowds of beleaguered husbands to buy day-of flowers for me on Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, or any other Day When Good Men Buy Gifts. I do emphatically! enjoy being acknowledged, but I’m quite happy to let dates slip by a day or two in order to avoid crowds and gross inconvenience for my partner or myself.

I’d rather eat in on a holiday to avoid dining elbow-to-elbow in a packed room at the “correct” time for celebration. Along the same lines, I’m happy to receive my flowers on another day.

And yet, DH—being a gentleman with old-fashioned manners—showed up last Friday with a large bouquet of red roses for me. Yes: his mother is suitably proud.

I was having a rough day as far as my ongoing health issues go, so I decided to forego a heavy crystal vase in favor of anything I could lift.

Dozen red roses in yellow ceramic pitcher on windowsillMy favorite vessel for cut flowers is actually a little dijon yellow ceramic pitcher. I thought the red roses looked quite fetching in it, and the arrangement matched my outfit, too.

DH’s largess, however, meant I still had quite an array of blooms left for which homes wanted finding. It crossed my mind that a bud vase next to my desk would be a nice reminder of how much I’m loved while I work on the bane of every first quarter of the new year, our income tax returns.

3 red roses in a short, tulip-shaped bus vase of purple glass

A slim glass vase held only a few more stems, though, so I wasn’t done re-homing flora.

In keeping with the lower-center-of-gravity-means-less-knocking-over-by-arthritic-hands philosophy of the day, I remembered my tiniest crystal vase. It’s good and heavy for its size, but also quite stable. I was having that kind of day. Arthritis makes me a klutz.

Half a dozen red roses in a small crystal vase

I placed the final half dozen or so roses and went about my business.

Valentine’s Day fell on a school day this year, and, eventually, my younger son arrived home. Upon entering the powder room after dropping his lunch box in the kitchen, he yelled,

Hey, there’s something weird on the toilet!”

Yes, dear readers, I’d placed the final little vase in one of the few uncluttered spaces in my maximalist home: atop the toilet tank lid in the guest bath.

I suppose “something weird on the toilet” is better than “something rotten in the state of Denmark,” at least as far as home decoration goes.

Small crystal vase of red roses atop white ceramic toilet tank

Here’s what Instagram stories rarely feature: we all live imperfect lives. Many families have messy homes. We certainly do. Yes, even on holidays.

Maybe especially on holidays!

Loving partnerships thrive in cluttered suburban McMansions, Korean banjiha, dilapidated farmhouses, and also I’d expect in zen-like modern interiors kept up by teams of professional cleaners as seen on tv.

Here’s the long view of my other vessels full of horticultural affection.

The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes, but our hearts are full of love!

I fussed for about five seconds trying to take a “pretty” picture of my Valentine flowers, but if I’d had the energy to get the dishes done and work on the taxes, it already would have happened.

It’s easy for me to get caught up in foolish self-inflicted punishments.

  • I can’t buy that bouquet today because they will look dumb on my cluttered dining table.
  • There’s no point replacing my tattered towels when the kids keep staining the good ones.

Lipstick on a pig!

You can follow that path to all sorts of dreadful places, like not buying flattering clothing that fits for want of losing weight. It’s silly, it’s harmful, and I try not to live like that.

My Valentine flowers are a loving gesture from a person who actually strives to make me happy every single day. That’s well worth celebrating in and of itself! Seen in that light, it would be downright shameful of me not to share my imperfect photos with the world with the celebration and joy that selfless love deserves.

On Valentine’s Day, I didn’t feel in wonderful health and my house was a mess, but I had the good fortune to spend the day with people I love and who love me back. It’s lovely; it’s enough. I wish everyone felt free to bask in such glorious imperfection.

And a skeptic as to my sincerity when I protest obligatory flowers, even 20+ years into our relationship!

Poetry serves democracy: When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home…

Perhaps the most delightful side effect of educating one’s own children at home is the constant opportunity to discover and rediscover the vast riches of all the learning the world has to offer.

Case in point: a poem by Lord Byron.

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock’d on the head for his labours.
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And, is always as nobly requited; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang’d, you’ll get knighted. 

If you read it aloud, you might be put in mind of limericks. That’s because the meter is anapestic,* of course, though the rhyme scheme here differs from that of a limerick.

duh-duh-DUH, duh-duh-DUH, duh-duh-DUH, duh-duh-DUH

Extra credit if you know how many feet are in each line of verse…

Textbooks including Poetry & Humanity by Michael Clay Thompson from Royal Fireworks PressI’m grateful to the skilled teacher, Michael Clay Thompson, who wrote the multi-level language arts curriculum published by Royal Fireworks Press that I’ve used with my son for about eight years now. My own appreciation for and knowledge of grammar has grown alongside my son’s, and many of the poems included therein have become family favorites.

Lord Byron’s cheeky, even snarky, goad to action on behalf of human freedom is both a pleasure to read aloud and a timely reminder to do my part for democracy as people worldwide withdraw into petty nationalism while human unity fractures.

Here’s hoping my reward is to be nobly requited. That sounds much better than the alternative.

*Anapest. You know! The opposite of a dactyl. If I learned these details in school, I’ve long since forgotten them, but the poetics study included at every level of MCT’s language arts program is often my very favorite part. It doesn’t so much demand that we memorize these obscure terms as make us want to by showing us both the breadth and depth of what’s beautiful in the construction of our mother tongue.

Exposé: Cuisine-ophobia or the xenophobic kitchens of another generation

While celebrating a family birthday around a crowded, multi-generational table, I pontificated at my children about the way certain dishes and cuisines have shifted within American society from outsider status to everyday favorites. My immigrant in-laws nodded in agreement as we all discussed the way “normal” home cooking varies over time and between homelands.

pizza“Why, when Grandma was a child,” I intoned, “spaghetti was an ethnic Italian food that your American great-grandmother would never have made at home. Isn’t that funny, since we eat pasta and pizza every week?”

“Ah yes,” replied my younger son, “cuisine-ophobia is a terrible thing!”

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