Today, in celebration of Yom Ha’atzmaut, my daughter swiped pink and purple makeup on her eyelids, wore a pair of too-big fancy shoes, and a Shabbos dress I purchased before Pesach, that actually looks like a combination of a nightgown and a Shvimkleid. I had previously tried to demote the dress from its Shabbos-status to a dusting-rag, but somehow the cleaning lady hung it back up in my daughter’s closet. It was blue and white so it worked well as Yom Haatzmaut garb, especially because this daughter only wears dresses, so we couldn’t even throw together an impromptu outfit with a jean skirt and white shirt. It had to be a dress, and if I didn’t magically produce a blue and white one, she would likely stand naked in front of her closet, glaring at it, until it was time for carpool. So she wore the nightgown to school. The really bad part is that I also bought this dress for my older daughter, and so now we own two.
I’m not sure why I bought these dresses, only that they were being sold online, and maybe I couldn’t actualize the true depth of their ugliness. In a flurry of pre-Pesach energy, I knew I needed outfits for my kids and lacked the time to go to as many stores as would be necessary to fulfill my shopping requirements. So I ordered a few things from the internet, but failed to have the girls try them on. I happily packed everything in suitcases, satisfied that I had so easily created enough outfits for the eight days of the holiday. And then one sunny morning, the girls put on these hideous garments.
“Why don’t you go get dressed and we can have breakfast?” I overheard my husband tell one of our daughters. But she was wearing her new Yom-Tov dress, it was just unrecognizable as such; wide and shapeless, like an ameba. The front was comprised of one-inch strips of fabric decorated with white airplanes, sewn horizontally down the entire length of the dress. From the little picture on the computer screen, I don’t think I could tell that the fabric was airplanes, and I was quite shocked that my four-year-old agreed to wear it and didn’t try to tell me that it was “boy-ish,” as she does with most other items hued blue.
“Mommy, you can’t wash this dress!” my daughters tell me, and they point to the fabric, showing me how the edges of each airplane-strip are fraying, claiming it wasn’t like that before. The strips are becoming thinner as the bottom inch of each piece deteriorates into fragile fringes of thread. I plan to plunge both dresses into the washing machine, and set a timer so that they go through the cycle all day long. I hope the whole fabric unravels and I am left with a giant ball of blue string.
For the most part, my children are not well-dressed. I have good intentions, but then I abort my mission after the first complaint of “too itchy!” or “I don’t like sweaters!” and just let them wear what they want, which is usually a solitary item in their closets. The only one who lets me dictate what to wear is the baby, and although he can’t say much, he has already expressed to me that he won’t wear shoes. I guess I’ll stop buying them, then.
In the meantime, I am hopeful that the airplane dresses fly away, or that I will find something equally beloved that can replace them in the closets. Or else, I will let the girls wear it, maybe as a beach-cover up, to bed at night, or for special occasions.
Sarah Abenaim is a freelance writer living with her husband and four children in Teaneck. She is working on her first book. More of her essays can be read at www.writersblackout.wordpress.com.
By Sarah Abenaim
