Skirts and Why I Love 'Em

I’ve said it before, but women have not been wearing skirts for thousands of years ONLY because of male oppression. Other, powerful reasons exist. I love skirts, I’m not ashamed of it, and I think it’s time to shed some light on these maligned garments. (Which, by the way, some enlightened men wear.)

Before I start, I should probably specify that I like full, ankle-length, sturdy, cotton skirts. I should also add that it’s possible to wear these while not totally giving off a hippie vibe. I may possibly be biased on that score, however. My husband DOES like to sing “New Age Girl” at me occasionally. I may not be the best judge of hippie v. not. Maybe.

Top Ten Reasons I Love Skirts

1.       They’re comfortable. Cool and loose in the summer with a tank top, skirts have no sticky, sweaty parts. Worn with a sweater, they’re also warm in the winter and have lots of material to, say, cover your feet when you’re curled up on the couch.

2.       They hide my least favorite body parts. My knees, people. Sheesh.

3.       They carry things, Part 1. Now my hubby can (and has) put keys, money, maps, a camera, and my shawl in his pants pocket (simultaneously) and looked none the worse for it. However, if I put a piece of tissue paper in my pants pocket, I look like I gained ten pounds around the hips. Skirts with pockets do not have this problem—lots of room for stuff to disappear in there!

4.       They carry things, Part 2. Anyone read Clan of the Cave Bear? Skirts make recyclable, portable, convertible baskets. Seriously, I can load up and still have the skirt cover everything to Catholic school standards. My two frequent fliers are laundry and boy toys (Legos, Matchbox cars, et al.). When Little A. makes a “parking lot” in the living room using all of his cars AND the ones he inherited from his dad, it’s nice to just scoop ‘em up, take one trip to his room, and dump the in the bin. Fabric dump-trucks, that’s what skirts are.

5.       Great for sitting in grass. With all that material, you can kick your shoes off and sit “criss-cross applesauce” with no itching. Your kids can hop on, too! Have a picnic!

6.       Wiping. Seriously—when you’re at the park on that day when you thought you’d travel light, without the enormous Mom Bag, then two-year-old Junior gets his hands plastered with dirt and now insists on feeding himself goldfish, one at a time and with much finger contact, and you REALLY need to get that dirt off—you’re gonna love the underside of your skirt hem.

7.       Privacy. You know that thing where you never go to the bathroom alone, ever? Well, it’s a lot harder for the kids to make loud, blunt, constant comments about your body and it’s functions when that’s all happening under a skirt instead of with your pants around your ankles. It’s the little things, people. Moms, can I get an Amen?

8.       Flexible sizing. I have The. Most. Awesome. Skirt. It’s tiered and linen, so it looks very tailored (for a hippie; see  disclaimer above) and it has absolutely no give in the material. I splurged and paid $50 for it when we’d just bought a house—boy, did I feel guilty! But I’ve worn that skirt through every size involved in two babies and a substantial weight loss. (Except extreme pregnancy. Then I wore sheets. Maybe a mu-mu on my skinny days.) Seriously, the skirt gets a few inches shorter when I’m heavy (and possibly sits more around my ribs than my waist) and a few inches longer when I’m fit (and sits on my hips—sweet!), but it always works.

9.       They swish. Oh, c’mon. It’s fun to swish.

10.   Lots of things can happen under a skirt. Believe me. It’s a lot more fun to get “under her skirt” than “in her pants.” Just saying. Women didn’t wear these things for millennia JUST because of male oppression. Y’hear me?

If you know me, you know I believe people can do anything they want. I think it’s great that society finally decided women should have the option to wear pants. I like pants, too. In fact, while I can (and will, if needed) kick butt and take names while wearing a skirt, I’m really glad I can wear pants to work out.

But let’s not throw the sartorial baby out with the bathwater of oppression.

We Voted Today

I voted today. I don’t know if “empowered” really describes how I feel.

I do know that I am very grateful to everyone who enables all Americans to have and keep their voice in government, from the revolutionaries to the suffragettes to today’s men and women in the armed forces to the volunteers at the polls.

I do know that I need to participate in the process; that’s doing my part to maintain our voice in our government.

I do know that I want my kids to be able to say, “Of course my parents voted.”

All the same, I’m really getting tired of “lesser of two evils” choices, politically speaking.

I feel like most politicians have never done anything real in their lives; their skill sets revolve around being elected. The Homecoming court at my high school had that skill set. You know?

I’d like a few of them to do all that stuff Lloyd Dobler scorned—sell something (other than themselves), buy something, process something. I’d like to see some kickboxers out there running, for that matter. Or soldiers, artists, doctors, chemists, restaurateurs...

Citizen legislators. Look it up.

Of course, there’s a HUGE drawback to that. In order for citizen legislators to be effective, the government has to be organized, efficient, intuitive, geared to provide the necessary services in the simplest, most cost-effective way possible. It has to be run well, so that, say, an experienced businessperson could step in and learn the ropes quickly.

Wait, did I say that was a drawback?

Sure, I’d be sad to see the endless paper-producing, red tape-creating, money-eating bureaucracy go, but I guess I could live with a streamlined, effective government.

Especially if it means that when my children vote someday, they don’t have to think, “Well, this one’s not quite as bad.” I would put up with a lot if it meant my children could say, “Wow. I voted for someone with integrity and common sense and a plan; someone who takes a long view and truly looks after the constituents’ interests.”

As it is, both kids voted at school today. Here’s our conversation in the car:

S.: We voted today.

Me: Oh, yeah? Who’d you vote for?

S.: I don’t want to tell you.

Little A.: I voted for the one that starts with an M. I Xed out the other one.

Me: Why’s that?

S. (whining): I don’t wanna tell you!

Me: You don’t have to tell me. I’m asking Little A. Why’d you pick that guy, buddy?

Little A.: The teacher said we could pick one guy and circle it.

Me: But you must have picked the M one for a reason.

S. (drowning out…everything): So, the way we had to vote was REALLY weird. The class—our class went into the auditorium? And they had this list—a list of all our names. And we had to SIGN our names next to, um, the names—our names. On the list? And then we got this number and we had to take it to the computer and put it in the computer and hit enter—after the number. Then, then the screen came up? And we had to click on one, then scroll down. And then we had to pick one person for, um, for Senate? But the good thing was we finished voting early and got extra recess.”

I think we’ll have to teach them to be responsible, thinking voters NEXT time.

And why does my third grader get computer voting when I’m stuck with a scantron ballot?

When My Filter Works

I’m a bit of a control freak—no secret there. With years of experience, I’ve learned to moderate it to a point where it’s useful. Most of the time. A lot of times, this means the script running through my head is NOT what I let out of my mouth. I’ve learned to filter.

As a control-freaky parent, my thoughts often sound like those annoying insurance commercials. I won’t say “the ones I love to hate” because it’s more like “the ones I’m comfortable and familiar with hating.” To be a little more descriptive, I’m talking about the ones that conclude, “Don’t get caught in your boxers during rush hour.” Or “Don’t let leprechauns eat your cereal.” Or something like that.

Today at lunch, I cheerfully told Little A., “Eat up—it’s getting late.” He looked at me with the deep thoughts visible behind his big brown eyes and said, “Why do you always say that, Mommy?”

What went through my mind, before filtering:

• Because if you don’t hurry up and eat your yogurt squeezer, pb&j (in triangles, no crust), 37.5 craisins (each of which looks like something and needs to be shown to me), apple boat, apple canoes, milk, and dessert…
• Then you won’t go to your room to play until late…
• I won’t get to start work until late…
• I won’t get as much done before we have to wash the car and go to the bus stop…
• I’ll be stressed all during dinner and bedtime—well, never mind that. I’m always stressed then.
• I’ll have to stay up late working after you go to bed…
• I won’t get much sleep…
• I’ll oversleep and I won’t get to run and my contacts will feel sticky and I’ll give S. the wrong yogurt because I can’t see and then I’ll drop a plate because I’m tired…
• I’ll start the day being Grumpy Mommy.

Don’t make me drop plates and be Grumpy Mommy.

What came out of my mouth, after filtering:

“Do I always say that? Sorry. I guess I just want to get to work.”

This kind of feeds into a theory of mine. You know how babies always wake up smiling, cooing, and laughing? When S. used to do that, Big A. (philosophical guy that he is) asked me at what age people stop waking up happy. At the time, I had a six-month-old, so I just said, “I dunno” and wandered off to do laundry.

A couple of years later, S. started school and we had another baby. We started to be late for everything, and S. understood the concept of “late.” And, about then, I noticed that she stopped waking up smiling.

Deep thoughts. Definitely something to think about in our over-scheduled world.

Still Funny

Okay, I’m not The Feminist Breeder (Rock star? Nope. Mega-blogger? Nope. Master’s candidate? Nope. Mother of three? Nope.), but I totally identified with this.

So, in a continuation of my last blog (and her blog as well), I AM cutting back on my commitments, but I am also still disorganized, forgetful, irritable, and generally apathetic. This is the point where Big A. chimes in. “It’s going to take some time to get over two years of sleeping six hours or less every night.”

Yeah, okay, but I don’t have time to wait for that!

Still, funny things continue to happen, creating little islands of fun in my fog.

S. loves jokes and asks for them all the time, but my well is running dry. So I reached back for an old, old, OLD one. Never dreaming she’d get it, I asked her,

                “How do you stop a rhinoceros from charging?”

She thought for a minute, then said happily,

                “You unplug the charger!”

Score one for Generation…well, whatever comes after Y.

Then there’s my little guy, who just turned five—big shout-out to you, Little A!

I love that he’s developing a verbal sense of humor. As a matter of fact, I’m convinced that’s why I encourage my kids’ verbal skills—so I’ll have people to be sarcastic with. He recently pulled off an ACW (Adult-Class Witticism), but you have to have a little background….

As part of their Cars franchise, Pixar released a series of cartoons called Mater’s Tall Tales. As the down home Mater tells each crazy story, his best buddy Lightning says, “No way!” or something to that effect. Then Mater says (every time), “You remember—you were there. You didn’t make it.” And then you learn how Lightning “died” in that story.

Well, Big A. planned to take some PTO to attend S’s amazing presentation on the octopus and he didn’t want to get her hopes up, so he hadn’t promised anything. But he did get to go and, on the way home, he said, “You did a great job, S. I’m so glad I could make it.”

Little A. perked up with an evil grin and said, “You were there…but you didn’t make it.”

Yeah, he totally knew what he was saying!

But Dad still takes the cake. He reigns supreme in the field of dry delivery, opportunistic wit, and general, all-around smarty-pants-ness.

Little A. made us a tea party. Never fear, it was a boy’s tea party. Our “blend” consisted of astronauts, Cars silly bands, Cars duplos, mardi gras beads, rocks, and probably some things we don’t want to mention. S. and I exclaimed over the amazing items in our tea blends, while Daddy bided his time, like a gator waiting to snap. Finally, there came a pause.

Picking up the toy jet on the tea table (Why not? Aircraft make great table toppers.) and dropping it in his teacup, he said,

“But I got plane tea!”

The very, super-duper, best part? We ALL FOUR burst into laughter at the same time. 

Yes, this is what I’ve been waiting for—this is my mommy paycheck.

Energy Drain

Do you ever have one of those days when the most fun you have is “disobeying” your map app by taking a shortcut out of your neighborhood? 

 

So, there you smug, self-righteous piece of programming! Tell me where to turn, will you? Ha!

Once upon a time, I rebelled about things that made sense. Now, it seems I’m maxing out my abilities by telling off a GPS. I’ll tell you why. It’s not a mystery. I’m beat—like, I-could-drink-32-ounces-of-strong-coffee-and-then-fall-asleep-for-eighteen-hours kind of beat.

Several (or more) perky mom magazines or ezines or talk show hosts probably want to chime in at this point and say, “But you need to take care of YOU! Find more time for yourself.” And then I’d have to get medieval on them, just like I did with my GPS.

Really? Tell me one single thing I can quit doing and I will quit it!

I mean, I’m lucky. My job has flexible hours; I have enough time in the day to workout and shower almost every day. (And if I’ve run into you on a day when I’ve done the former but not the latter, I apologize.) Yeah, so my husband travels and my youngest isn’t in school fulltime yet and neither of my kids is exactly low maintenance—that’s not abnormal or anything.

At this point, I have streamlined everything—I’m not working the crazy hours I was last year, I’ve cut back on volunteering at school, I’m not taking on an extra volunteer projects. I haven’t even sewn or baked anything this year, really. No Hyper Henrietta Housewife here.

But these crazy people in my life keep insisting on having homework and sleepovers and activities and fundraisers and birthdays, and then they track stuff all over the floors, get clothes dirty, and want to be fed. The nerve!

And I’m starting to gather that I’m not the only one feeling this way. What the heck is going on? Listening to my kids’ cartoon in the background as I type, I wonder if some villainous Energy Monster stalks the country, sapping mothers of their desperately needed strength. Where, oh where is Super Mom when you need her?