My favorite hoodieIt came out of nowhere. A backhanded compliment like none other. "When I grow up," my daughter told me, "I want to be just like my Mommy. Except the hair. And the clothes. I want fashionable clothes."
Hi! My name is Jeanne Sager, and even my 7-year-old is embarrassed by my horrendous style.
It's OK, you can laugh. Everyone else does. Even my 16-year-old babysitter.
She forbid me just this past Sunday from buying what she described as my "347th Ralph Lauren sweater." Sorry, Ralph, but apparently you've been rendered uncool by the mere association with me.
This is where I have to point out that it's not really fair.
After all, my 7-year-old is extremely fashionable. We go out in public, and people comment on it frequently. Just last week my hairdresser joked with my daughter that she should give fashion tips.
Now, who do you think buys all my daughter's clothes? Right: me. I know what she likes, and I cater to her tastes when I go shopping for her. It's only when it comes to me that I say "another cable knit cotton sweater, please, the boxier, the better."
OK. Ok. My daughter's comment stung most because, well, it's kinda, sorta true. OK, it's totally true.
I don't really pay attention to my wardrobe. And unlike the moms who will go on about how much more they cared before the baby came, I never have. I have always been a jeans and t-shirts kind of girl. In the winter, I throw on hoodies and sweaters, and I'm pretty much set.
They're easy to find and, more importantly to me, they're easy to wear. My motto is pretty much: "If it's not comfortable, I don't want to wear it."
Sadly, that has as much to do with my discomfort in my own skin as it does with comfort with fabrics. I might be the only woman I know who truly misses the '90s, when bigger was better and it was hard to tell that I was hiding a size 12 frame underneath those baggy jeans. I am not a woman who shows her arms. Or her thighs. Or her stomach.
But I digress.
I am not the most fashionable woman on the planet. But I'm not that bad, really. I may be a mom who embarrasses her 7-year-old, but I've still got standards, darnit!
My jeans don't taper at the ankles. I wouldn't be caught dead with a fanny pack. I only wear yoga pants to Zumba (really!). And no, you will never, ever, ever catch me in a pair of Uggs.
Just imagine what my 7-year-old would be saying if I went down any of those roads!
Does your kid critique your style? Do you measure up to their expectations?
Image by Jeanne Sager