“Tomorrow, let’s go for the leopard pants! You are my lion, after all. Same same, but different.” I laugh in my daughter’s room. This has become part of our evening ritual, my sartorial stroke of genius to buy us fifteen more minutes of sleep. We pick her outfit the night before, and I dress her while she sleeps. Come to think of it, I should pick my own outfit the night before, then ask my husband to dress me in my sleep. I am not functional before sunrise.
I appointed myself as her personal stylist. She did not ask for one, but here we are. I lay the leopard pants on her dresser with a white T-shirt, a denim jacket, and the matching bow, but my opinionated two-year-old client disagrees and points to the purple pants. How could she? Horrified yet not surprised, I cave in to her" faute de goût". This month, she only swears by this lavender purple. She will grow out of it. Good taste comes with time. We move on to the water bottle, and I thoughtfully hand her the pink Minnie Mouse. “No, I want Bluey.” Tomorrow, I’ll push for a red top and navy pants. After all, blue and red do make purple.
My alarm goes off at 6:30, reminding me how much I hated waking up for class. In all seriousness, what needs to happen at this ungodly hour? Finger painting? Play-Doh? That being said, education before everything. I am relieved of my motherly duties for a couple of minutes to recuperate. God bless the iPad. Her screen time, my me time.I head to my closet while silently cursing my husband for not handling the mornings. He already handles absolutely everything else in our lives. Why not add this to the list? Today, I will be wearing black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and more black. I grab a pair of camel fur-lined Uggs with a little platform, which is mortifying, but I can’t deal. Did I actually buy these? Why do I even own those abominations in Miami? The car is downstairs.
At the school gate, after listening to “The Wheels on the Bus” about thirty times, I spot my friend Bree and her daughter, Celine. Gabriella agreed to wear her leopard barrel pants to match the school’s lion mascot. My impeccable taste prevailed. A win is a win. 1–0. The backpack is purple. 1–1. The girls seem as thrilled to be here as I am, but both have style. Celine is wearing a pink Liberty dress, matching bows in her hair, and blush pink rhinestone Miu Miu ballerinas. Naturally, we try to get them to hold hands to take a picture and fail. We can coordinate the clothes, not the children. As I stand there in Uggs from twenty seasons ago and my finest mall-goth apparel, I notice that Bree has done no better. She probably got dressed in the dark, and I love her for that. “Our daughters are icons and we look like shit,” Bree tells me.
On the way back to our cars, we pass one of the mothers from the class. She is a vision, with legs for miles, a perfect tan, and a navy and white tennis outfit with the matching socks. I have an eye for these things. I am my daughter’s stylist, for crying out loud. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail with a cascade of golden curls, and I glance at my reflection in the window of a car. I could have brushed my hair. “She is so beautiful.” “Ugh, I hate her.”
We start laughing. Less than a minute ago, we were waving goodbye to our daughters, and now look at us, two mean girls gossiping outside the school about a woman whose only crime is looking pretty. Before I know it, I’m back in high school. Earlier this morning, I could barely remember how to put on clothes, but gossiping with my friend at the school gate? Well, that’s muscle memory. My car is the last one there, abandoned in the middle of the sidewalk, hazard lights flashing. “See you at pickup.”
I sent my daughter off to pre-K, and somewhere along the way, my teenage personality came roaring back. This is The School Gate Theory. I write the title on the venti Starbucks latte cup I had forgotten to throw away. Serendipity. Back home, I sit at my computer in my emo costume. I probably should change, but for what? My day happens in my office or in the car. The Uggs stay.
By pickup, it’s raining. I make my way through carpool, and as Miss Carolina puts my daughter in the car seat, I smile. Carpool is genius. Nobody has to know I am still in my Hot Topic couture. And here I am, writing about clothes without changing mine. I am a disgrace to my own column. Education comes first.
Bisous,
Olympia
Hot topic couture has always been your strength!
I also have an eye for these things 🤣 it’s a daily ritual now 😍