lucky to have tights

This morning I put Julia’s tights on her. She was kicking around on my bed, skinny long feet in the air. I tussled her into them, milking the knit up her legs, and it made me think of a conversation I’d had with my mom. When I was Julia’s age and even older, I wouldn’t dress myself. How pitiful is that? Mom would put the clothes out on the bed, tell me to dress and then go make breakfast.

I’d roll around on the bed in my underwear, kick around, goof around, waiting for her to come back and dress me. She yell breakfast was ready a couple times and I’d ignore. Then shortly she’d come to the room and scold me, “Why aren’t you dressed? …mutter, mutter,” and she’d put the tights on me, same as I was on Julia this morning. I mean, I could see she didn’t feel like it, but her griping was a small price to pay to have someone else deal with the tights.

I’ve apologized to her for what a brat I was. I argued with Pam too much, would toss around on the floor at the store when I was bored while she was shopping. It was obvious to me fairly early that I had some very benign parents… other kids had to clean their plates and couldn’t be in the stuffy formal livingrooms of their homes. This was the standard of our suburban neighborhood, yuck. But that’s how it was.

Other kids’ moms wouldn’t let friends in the house—kids had to play outside all the time. My mom didn’t care. I didn’t have to eat all my food, didn’t have an early bedtime. I could have friends play in pretty much any time, could take my Barbies and dolls and all their clothes and crap out in the yard if I wanted. Suit yourself, honey. My dad never yelled. Spanking was unheard of. It just wasn’t very strict at my house, and the parents didn’t get excited about much.

Anyway, when I apologized, she waved me off, “You were just a kid.” Well, yeah. A brat is still a brat. I could have been nicer.

My mom tells about when she was a kid in the 40s, they didn’t have tights. They had long stockings and garters. Children’s garters. They were an elastic contraption that involved two long, wide strips of elastic that went from the front of the leg all the way over the shoulders on each side, to the back of the leg. Clips were on the end to fasten the stockings to. In the middle was an elastic waist band that held the long strips together.

She says it worked perfectly when it was on. But when the thing was taken off, the elastic would spring into a tangled ball. Getting it untangled and back on in the morning was a hell of an ordeal. Her mother was working in the barn, so she wasn’t going to come tussle her into it. She had to untangle it and get the damned thing on by herself. Moreover, she had to untangle her little sister Pat’s garter and get hers on her too. Yeah, tights aren’t so bad after all.

Here’s a cute picture of my mom and Pat, her sister, my godmother, taken in about 1947? Look how docile and tame that chicken is, big claws dangling.

Here’s a picture of my parents. Take a look at their faces. In the whole world there’s nobody kinder, more generous, forgiving, and GOOD than these two.

Last week Little Jay had to name a mentor for National Honor Society. They discourage kids from naming parents, and I think that’s good. (Parents are such obvious mentors.) I asked him who he was choosing. I thought he’d name one of his teachers. He’s had so many excellent teachers over the last few years.

He said, “Grandma,” without hesitation.

I said, “Wow. She’ll be honored. How did you decide that?”

He said, “She’s always believed in me, like totally, you know?” Yeah, I do know. Totally.

Lucky, that’s what we are, and smart enough to know it. Love, Val

Mom, Kirsten, and Little Jay