It was a warm, early September evening. Muggy, the kind that
lends itself to my natural curls and also to frizz. It was one of the many
times that I wore my skin awkwardly. One would think that, at almost 40, I
would be past that awkward-feeling stage but, on this this night, I felt sweaty
and dull and not lovely.
But we were going out- my own little family along with the
large extended one I inherited when I married my husband- to celebrate the 70th
birthday of my father-in-law. There were many children in tow, PJ included, so our chosen destination was hardly the Ritz. Still, it was nice
enough that I had to skip my typical uniform of jean, flip-flops, and a tank
top.
My little Prince. |
Age and motherhood both have left me with a body that I am
still not used to. Extra weight sits on my small bones in a manner that is not
kind. I remember having to struggle to stay above one hundred pounds. Now, I am
nearly forty pounds overweight. I forget sometimes that I am not the lithe
creature of my 20’s. Generally, that moment comes when I need to get dressed.
Clothes didn’t matter to me, even as a young person with a great figure. Now
that I am in a body that is difficult to dress, it matters a little bit more.
I tell myself that there are more important things on my
plate. I am the mother of a child with Autism. It takes so much energy
sometimes just to stay afloat, even though raising him is a joy, an honor, my
life work. The idea that I might hold some beauty seems silly. Who is even
looking?
I opened my closet to get dressed and found a dress I had
not worn before. It is something that happens to me often- I purchase something
only to get it home and lose faith. I have a penchant for maxi dresses despite
my short stature, but this one was a bit dressier, a bit more structured. It
hung softly on its hanger, a coral glow among the other brightly colored
rejects that joined it. I slipped it over my head and adjusted. The long skirt floated
to the tops of my feet and the halter tied in a ribbon about my neck. I stood
in front of the mirror, all coral and floated skirt, and gave myself the stink
eye. The dress didn’t cling too conspicuously, and it wasn’t filled out to its
breaking point. There was nothing outwardly wrong and yet I could plainly see
that it did not look good. It was not flattering.
I sighed and walked into the living room, where PJ was
sitting on the couch watching a movie. He glanced up at me as I walked in. I
can’t always hold his attention very long, so his short glance was not out of
the ordinary.
“Mommy’s a princess!” he declared brightly.
PJ had never made such a statement. His observations
tend to run toward the more concrete (“Mommy is wearing a shirt!”). I felt my
heart stop as I sat down next to him. “A princess, eh?” I asked, but his attention was already
turned back to Wreck It, Ralph. I
snuggled next to him and fingered the hem of the dress. My rational self knew
it didn’t look good, but my son had told me, for the first time ever and in his
own way, that he thought it was pretty.
I got him dressed and intended to change after, but I just
couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to take off that wretched garment and flee to
the safety of my jeans and a nice tank top. Instead, I slipped on a pair of
silver sandals. I walked into the restaurant with my sons hand in mine. I let
myself enjoy the feel of the soft skirt against my legs and carry the glow of
the coral fabric. I basked in motherly pride at how well-behaved my son was and
wore it like makeup. I kept my stomach pulled in, my shoulders relaxed, and my
back straight. My usual insecurities didn’t matter that night. I didn’t let
them weigh me down but, rather, bore the sparkle of my sons words like a tiara,
just like any princess would.
2 comments
This made me cry! Love it!
such a sweet post :) I'm sure the dress looked amazing on you, especially if PJ thought you looked like a princess :)
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