Mother's Day, from a Daughter's Eyes

When I was eight years old, I went to a little store across the street from my school (at least I think that's where it was) and I bought my mother the most beautiful house dress. It cost eight dollars. Mother's Day was a few days away.

In Brooklyn, in the sixties, moms wore house dresses when they came home. At least my mom did. Some, as I recall, also wore nylon knee highs rolled down to their ankles (why, I could not say) and hairnets. My mom was a cut above; no rolled knee highs, no hairnets, just a clip to hold the wispy front flips of her hair in place. My guess is there was enough spray to take care of that, but you can never be too careful.

Only my close friends knew the house dress version of my mom. To this day, that side of her remains a closely held secret. A half century since I bought her that Mother's Day present, the stylish woman everybody knows slips into a house dress the moment she comes home. A house dress and the clip. Mom.

The clip, I'm fairly certain, is the same one, but no house dress has ever come close to the beautiful, hot pink, wrap-around, above the knee little number with the colorful appliqué of something on the pocket and the black and white trim along the edges. I loved that house dress. So did my mom; she wore it until it was so threadbare it practically disappeared.

When I was eight, I still had no idea that mother-daughter relationships were complicated. What I did know was that even if I had purchased the ugliest house dress in the store, my mom would have worn it to death. And, as stylish and picky as she was, she would have thought it was beautiful. It was something I tended to forget over the years, when we fought, when I was sure she was my arch enemy, when I forgot she was the president of my fan club, much less even a member.

I celebrated my first Mother's Day just a few weeks after my first child was born -- I have the picture of me holding her in front of the Small Mammals House at the Lincoln Park Zoo to prove it. I remember thinking, back then, that Mother's Day was an earned holiday, eclipsing even my birthday in importance, though all I had done to earn it, so far, was endure a relatively pleasant pregnancy, an excruciating birth (immediately forgotten), and a few sleepless nights. I would never have imagined, that day, that the small girl mammal in my arms would one day snarl at me, maybe even question my devotion.

It has taken me a long time to realize that my mother, my true mother, is the one who wore that house dress until it pretty much disappeared. And, three grown kids into my stint, I realize I am always, above all else, the young woman holding on tight to the small miracle who gave me the first inkling of who I was meant to be.