WELCOME
IN A MOTHERLY FASHION
Posted 09.11.09 by annajohnson
If the man who photographs The Satorialist blog spot came to my playground who would he shoot? These are the sort of idle questions I ask myself when one hour melts Dali-like into another and the boredom begins to harden. On the whole parents dress horribly and my sisters in motherhood are painted with the same brush. The mummy uniform in Sydney at this minute is a tight high pony-tail, jeans, a long sleeved jersey and a jogging style fleeced hoody. Oh, and a plastic lidded coffee cup welded to one hand. The footwear is deliberately ugly as well: thick soled running shoes, platform flip flops and, just occasionally, Crocs. “So what?” I hear you cry up in unison “Who’s watching?”. Well I am. But more out of curiosity than spite.
Last Tuesday my Mother tried to give me a pair of black stretchy kung-fu pants with a thick waistband and a chunky placket over the zip. They looked like the trousers used to skillfully conceal a paunch or a pair of adult diapers (or both) and she added sweetly “You know, for the playground”. It’s true that a sandpit and a climbing frame and a sandstone castle pose questions of fiber flexibility but I can do all that goof ball play in a dress and tights just as well as a pair of Russell Crowe’s track pants. And so I deliberately wear things that are a bit “off” when we trek to the seven circles of hell that are heaven for my son. Yesterday I rocked an Indian print dress, five silver bangles, blood orange colored tights and a pair of high heel boots. When the weather gets warm I rather love the idea of a full length satin evening dress, crumpled and a bit grass stained as if I’d just tripped home from a four day rock festival . That and a pair of violet haviana flip-flops. Just to shake the monkey tree. Especially on a Sunday to wake up the dads doing their fatherly strut. And essentially to compete with a mother I refer respectfully to as Lady J.
Lady J made my day last week as she rose pheonix like out of the sand in a pair of towering heeled boots, flaring high rise jeans (gripping her thighs without shame) and a skin tight gingham blouse that evoked the sexiest country singer you can imagine from Robert Altman’s ‘Nashville’. All that and cascading glamour girl auburn hair, teasingly flicked over one eye and tumbling down her back. Her son, in turn, was dressed as Superman. “Listen” Lady J said to me bluntly “I could dress like a sack of shit as a mother but I don’t choose to.” My neck jerked round like lightning to absorb the modest mums dressed in earth colored fleece, their pitiless scraped back pony tails exposing shameless levels of sexual apathy and habitual exhaustion. Lady J’s get-up was like a gauntlet, but the response was uniformly passive aggressive. The mamans ordinaire seemed to form tighter clumps, and use mock whispers, nothing more hostile than that. “It only takes a few more minutes in the morning…” Women who are five foot ten with smokey topaz eyes always say that but I nodded respectfully and gazed at her three inch heels. Formidable! Flipping fabulous. But futile to emulate.
Granted, this deliberately alienated glamour mama was not rolling in the sandpit or lunging for toys. But none of the mothers were. One of the splendid ironies of really ugly active leisure wear is that so few people actually run in running gear or need truly need their stealthy mountaineer layers. Most Mums I see barely move. They shout instead. I’m the same, except for a bit of flitting through the artfully planted gum trees and a pot of climbing, so I figure I can wear whatever I love and practicality be damned.
Shopping in the neighbourhood boutique I reached for a tangerine floral print wiggle dress in stretch cotton. Before I could seize it another manicured hand swiftly whipped it off the racks. “AHA!” Lady J declared in glee “I’ve had my eye on that dress for ages, well a week!” “Fine” I said “I dare you wear it to the playground.” And I am ashamed to admit I am wearing it now. With chocolate brown discount store high heels and a chignon. I’m only heading out for milk but you never know who might be at the supermarket. Lady J has standards. I before I run out the door in my really deeply beloved sheepskin ugg-let boots, hot pink fleece pajamas strewn with hearts and cherries and a raincoat, I imagine Lady J’s lips pursing slightly, and I pull my chic together. Many a sage has said that women dress for each other and not for men at all. When it comes to mothers the adage does not apply. Some sort of anti-fashion puritan backlash holds siege over the playground, “who needs fashion?” the plainer ones humph “I’m MOTHERING!”. Well, I need fashion, and not to compete with a glamazon vixen but to differentiate one day from the next and, importantly, to amuse my son. “Wear the Princess dress with the train!” he yelled at me tonight before story time. So I did and then I thought to sleep in it then wear it out again tomorrow at seven am. To buy more milk and search the aisles for Lady J.
Till next time, KEEPING IT YUMMY.
XXX ANNA
Image Caption: “high heels in the playground, after all all I do is sit on royal behind!”
Jacque Catterton Says:
May 20th, 2010 at 8:51 amI know exactly what you’re writing about. I’m dealing with the same thing now… Thank you for sharing!
data entry freelance work Says:
June 13th, 2010 at 7:33 pmHey…thanks for that. Great content. I’ll be checking back when I can for more updates. Cheers!