Letting Go (the Skinny Of It)

Now before you click away this post, let me reassure you: this is not going to be about my journey of self-exploration that got me from the total mess of a human being to the well-balanced Martha Stewart-like person that I am today. It's about my body and how I seem to be letting go of it, or rather, how it seems to be letting go of me. (Okay, men, feel free to click away now - unless you want me to let you in on an age-old femine secret that will undoubtedly aide you in understanding the female psyche once and for all.)

The other day, I was going to take a shower. Just as I was undressing, my son Bram barged into the bathroom, which, incidentally, is something we encourage in the hopes this will familiarize him with the concept of doing pee-pee on the potty. Anyway, he barged in and saw me naked. He has seen me in the nude before, but now that he is a bit older and has developed some more brain cells, he must've experienced it on a different level. If you're wondering what he did, I'll tell you: he laughed. Seeing me in my birthday suit made my two-year-old son crack up.

Now, I am well aware that my son's uninhibited sense of humor should not in any way be a device with which to measure my own self-confidence, and yet I felt compelled to take a scrutinizing look at the fleshy exterior I had admittedly been neglecting the past few years.

 Hello, full-length mirror. Behind the greasy fingerprints and drool smears (I mean on the mirror), I managed to get a good look at my body. There I was, looking to me something like Mrs. Potato Head with a couple of tea bags dangling from her shoulders. Where the heck did my boobs go? I was sure I had them last year... Not to mention my waist - it seems to have packed up and left town, leaving lots of room for the rif-raf to move in and start constructing mega apartment buildings. Dare I turn around? I dare. Lord, there are less craters on the surface of the moon! Okay, let's move away from this particular hemisphere. What the -! Is that long, wirey grey hair actually growing out of my scalp?! Omg, there's another one. And another! Since when did I have grey hairs?! Wait, when did I stop dying my hair? A-ha. Mystery solved.

Has it really come this far? Have I actually let myself go? Is this the fate that every engaged man dreads his wife-to-be will someday succumb to? I sucked in my gut - that looks a bit better. But how long can I actually go around without breathing? Not long enough. Seeing as I was already in the process of torturing myself, I decided to pull out that one piece of clothing and subject myself to the test that will determine whether or not I should send myself off to a fat-farm this very afternoon. Yes, (ladies, you know what I'm talking about) it was time for the 'skinny me jeans' test.

Every woman has a pair of jeans she wore long, long ago when she was young and thin, affectionately known as her 'skinny me jeans'. These jeans may never be discarded, since they are required for a periodic trying-on session; the result of which can cause the woman in question to be hurled into a fit of either unadulterated rapture or send her careening into a full-blown depression.

Every now and then, (coincidentally, just around the time the woman in question is about to get her period) the 'skinny me jeans' emerge. The trying-on commences. One foot goes in. The anticipation builds. The other foot goes in. Suspense can be cut with a knife. The jeans get pulled up, slowly, gradually, until they reach that oh-so crucial point: the lower thighs. Oh, fellow pear-shaped ladies, how we loathe those lower thighs! If the jeans can't even make it over the lower thighs, you can pretty much forget trying to get them up at all. If that happens, you've failed the 'skinny me jeans' test and you might as well go and eat an entire cheesecake.

So there I was, trying to pull on my 'skinny me jeans'. The pulling continued. The pulling became jerking. Jerking turned into wrenching. I had reached my mid-lower-thigh area and was starting to chafe my skin. I had no choice but to proceed with the 'lying down on the bed and yanking' method (see, I'm not making this up - if there's a copyrighted stock photo of it online, then it's true). I threw myself down on the bed, sucked my gut in so far I was close to imploding, and started yanking. I cringed, I grimaced, I broke a nail. But my efforts were not in vain. Hallelujah! I made it over my upper-thighs! My 'skinny me jeans' were on! Now came the next obstacle... zipping the fly.

Instead of getting up from the bed and letting gravity have an adverse effect on my accomplishments thus far, I decided to remain lying down in the sucked-in-gut position to attempt zipping up my beloved 'skinny me jeans'. This was a momentous occasion in itself, considering the number of times my 'skinny me jeans' and I even made it this far. It was a delicate procedure, seeing as vulnerable tummy flab could potentially get caught in the zip, resulting in physical as well as emotional agony. I felt for that oh-so familiar zipper-puller thingy and started to zip. Nothing happened. For a moment, I considered forgoing this stage of the test and just wearing an extremely long, baggy sweater over the unzipped 'skinny me jeans'. But I knew it wouldn't fly. My conscious simply wouldn't allow it. I pressed on. The zipper began to move. And under the control of my steady hand and my relentless determination to succeed, it zipped.

Now, don't think I could actually stand up at this point. My 'skinny me jeans' were on, and zipped, but that didn't mean I could actually wear them in public. The excess skin that had been forced upwards was now hanging over the waistband of my 'skinny me jeans' in such a mass that no sweater I owned could conceal it. Not to mention the fact that the 'skinny me jeans' were rapidly cutting off the circulation to my upper body.

What mattered was that I had passed the 'skinny me jean' test. This time. After more pulling and perspiring, I managed to get my 'skinny me jeans' off again, folded them neatly and returned them to the back of my closet, where they will remain until the next time my self-image is in doubt (which should be some time next week).

My First Born and Her First Love.

I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. Mia has a boyfriend. She's not even four years old yet and she has a boyfriend. Wait! I'm not ready for this!!

The apple of her eye is Nigel, the little boy who lives nextdoor. When I say 'little boy', I actually mean 'dangerous hoodlum'. Never have I known a little boy who has a death wish like Nigel. Every time I see him, he has some new gash on his forehead or series of bruises on his arms that make me wonder if he is even familiar with the concept of pain. This is most likely the reason Mia likes him. Nigel is a 'bad boy'.

Our neighbor, Nigel's father, has piled up old rocks and branches against the fence that separates our properties, which is the idea place for Nigel to grace us with his dare-devil talents. He seems completely unphazed by the imminent danger of jumping head-first into a pile of jagged rock and sharp branches, especially when encouraged by Mia's squeals of delight.

When our neighbors moved in, I heard the sounds of children playing nextdoor, and the prospect of playmates for Mia and Bram just a few meters away was promising. But, when I met Nigel, I was sure of two things: 1) there was no way Mia was going over to his house to play, and 2) there was no way he was coming to our house to play. I am positive, broken bones or broken furniture would be the inevitable result. My husband just recently had to reinforce the fence that separates my daughter from this budding Evil Kinevil, and if he can trash a fence, then you can be sure he can trash just about anything.

So it's become a very Romeo and Juliet kind of situation - the two lovers (Mia and Nigel), professing their admiration for one another at the insurmountable barrier that separates them (the fence) under the scrutinizing supervision of the evil parent who forbids their love (me).

I had no idea this relationship had even begun till the other day, when I heard Nigel's unmistakable voice screaming at the top of his lungs: 'Miiiiiiaaaaaaaa!' There he was, on top of his mound of branches, clad in a pirate's coat and bearing proudly some fresh cuts and scratches. Mia answered his call without hesitation by skipping to the fence and standing there, watching him perform his perilous feats. I observed it all from a distance, keeping an eye on anything sharp he should happen to get hold of, making sure he didn't try to poke Mia's eye out with it. When Nigel found a broken bottle to dazzle Mia with, that was my cue to enter the scene. When he saw me, he put on a broad grin, pointed at my daughter and said 'My Mia'.
Excuse me?
Did he say what I think he just said?
'My Mia'?!

Could this be but a foreshadowing of what's to come? Is my daughter slipping away from me already? Because this is just the beginning, isn't it? Before I know it, she'll be a teenager, and she'll be bringing home boys. Teenage boys. First, boys with scooters, then, boys with cars. Then boys with leather jackets and motorcycles!!! And then Mia will be going around with a leather jacket with 'Property of Nigel' embroidered on the back! If Nigel is any reflection of the type of boy Mia likes, then I'm seriously considering getting her to convent now.

But, as always, I should not underestimate my daughter. Mia knows what she's doing, which she made clear yesterday. As anyone who knows Mia knows, Mia goes ga-ga over flowers. Seeing as my husband and I are trying to teach Mia not to pick every single living thing in our garden before it even gets a chance to bloom, she has discovered another way to get her daily flower fix: yup, you guess it: Nigel. Nigel's yard is full of posies that Mia wants, so under her exact instructions, he runs around gathering any and all flowers she desires and hands them to her through the fence. Once she's got the flowers in her hand, her interest in Nigel seems to diminish. Mia gets her flowers, I get my peace of mind, and Nigel, well, Nigel gets another injury somewhere on his body in the process.
So, everybody's happy.

(I think I'll find out where the nearest convent is, just to be on the safe side...)

What To Do With Big Little Men...

My son Bram is not only a handful physically, he is an entire armful emotionally these days. That makes sense, since the big little man just turned two.

Suddenly a day in Bram's life has become busy and mentally challenging when it used to be a matter of simply waking up, eating food, napping, eating food, playing, eating food and going to bed. Now he's dealing with big emotions, growing pains, pre-school, other kids... it's a lot for any man to handle, especially a two-year-old one. He's neither familiar with nor capable of multi-tasking yet! He has officially graduated from babyhood into the era of toughness and now needs to dress accordingly.

As Bram deals with these developmental leaps into big-boyhood, I am experiencing parallels with the mialeentje boys' collection I lovingly named after him, bramboy. Apart from the 'everlasting pants - for kids who won't stop growing', I am finding it difficult to come up with new and exciting boyswear that I can put the same amount of passion into as I do the girlswear. A girls' garment has endless possibilities when it comes to ruffles, ribbons and gathering... A boys' garment just doesn't - and shouldn't - require the same approach, but what approach it does require has quite honestly got me stumped.

When I look at Bram, I see that he needs to be able to run, jump, climb, fall, trike, roll over and fall some more and he needs the proper attire to do all that in. When it comes to making clothes, I tend to lean towards cute, not tough. In fact, my inspiration for boyswear tends to fizzle out after size 74 (18mo), and after that, it's just no longer okay to be cute. A little boy who can slosh through a knee-deep puddle, get stuck haflway up a tree or carry a log half his own size simply can't be seen wearing powder blue or anything with a teddy bear motief on it. No, now it's got to be made of heavy denim, camoflauge and canvas. It's got to have cargo pockets everywhere, big enough to hold a frog, two worms and at least half a cup of sand.

My affinity for girlswear comes not only from the fact that I worked as a professional girlswear stylist for years, but also stems from the fact that I am, in fact, a girl. I recognize what a girl needs, what a girl wants, what a girl simply can't live without. The fact is that boys don't really care what they're wearing, as long as it doesn't get in their way while they're trying to ride a trike over a pile of branches. I seriously doubt Bram will develop the same desire to pick out his own outfit every morning as Mia did when she turned two. I get the distinct impression he has more important things to think about, namely how fast he can get his hands on his HotWheels.

So, what to do about big little men? I don't think I'm prepared to give up on bramboy completely - there are simply too many green-minded parents out there who are interested in my eco-friendly upcycled clothes for boys. But perhaps the line needs to be exclusively for the littlest of little men. The ones who can still get away with teddy bear motiefs and powder blue. The big little men who are still little enough to be cute.

And as for the bigger big little men - I'll keep my eyes on Bram and keep you posted...

The Dressing-Up Phenomenon

When I was a little girl, I didn't need an excuse to dress up, but Easter was when I especially went all-out. My mother even bought me an Easter hat occassionally, which I remember was donned with ruffles and ribbons and everything else girlie and splendid. I loved Easter, when I could prance around in a princess dress and Mary-Jane's, looking for my Easter basket and wearing my hair in curls.

My daughter Mia doesn't need a special occassion to dress up either, which is why I refer to her as an 'everyday diva'. Her wardrobe consists of more princess-gear than I ever owned as a kid, and I owned plenty myself. I was in the habit of changing outfits up to three times a day, and sometimes even slept in a party dress if I felt so inclined. My mom told me that I owned so many dresses that if I didn't put on three a day, I would've grown out of them before I even got a chance to wear them. So we were both pleased with my dressing-up obsession.

Sometimes I wonder if I might be depriving Mia of that extra-special feeling of getting dressed up for something extra-special, instead of just because it's a Tuesday. A special occassion deserves special attention, and what could be more attentive than getting all dolled up! But then I remember, my daughter is the product of my own dress-obsessed loins, so I can hardly deprive her of her own natural desire to dress up whenever she wants to.

It's all about accessorizing, knowing how to not overdress. For example, I am a strong supporter of girls wearing tutus to school, as long as they're dressed down enough, like with a pair of jeans underneath. Personally, I've been known to wear an evening gown with Doc Martens to school. Dressing up doesn't have to be saved for a special occassion - just a Tuesday can, and should, be special enough!

Mia is pretty lucky to have a seamstress for a mom, who can put together a dress fit for an everyday diva pretty much on demand. She only need knock on the door of my studio, pick out all the pink flowery fabrics she likes, wait a bit while I assemble them and voilà! She has a new frock, and I have a happy daughter. Like the new mialeentje patchwork dress - Mia chose all the bits of fabric, so I know she will love it. It's pretty enough for Easter and just about every other Spring day! And best of all, when Mia gets tired of it, I'll just put it up for sale on mialeentje!

So when Easter comes along, I won't need to go out of my way to make sure Mia gets dressed up. She takes care of that on her own. And I am happy to know that the days leading up to and following Easter are considered just as important to her. Every day is a special occassion, every day is to be celebrated, and every day is another excuse to dress-up (for us everyday divas, that is).