I don’t tell you this because I still need therapy. But…
Somewhere on the wall of my parent’s hallway, in a wooden frame twenty-five years out-of-date, is a picture of our family from 1985. That I’m wearing a torquoise and black striped button-down shirt with an open collar, is the part I’d love to keep under wraps. It’s just that that shirt combined with my triangular haircut, feathered equally to both sides and my inability to do more than smirk for a smile, confused the photographer.
Nevermind that I was in the sixth grade and wearing my very first bra whether I needed to or not.
Heavens. Completely nevermind.
And so as the photographer tried to situate the six of us into the same frame–my parents, my brother, my sisters and me, he called out, “let’s put the two boys on this side and the two girls over here.”
Friend…ain’t no two boys in our family.
Which made me catch on real quick that he was referring to the two of us in collars. By which time I flushed enough to at least look like I was wearing make up. And then squeaked, “I’m a girl.” Which completely didn’t matter by then.
And why I mention this now when I’m completely over it–sniff–I don’t know.
Except that my son, the one who aims an ear of Indian corn like it’s a weapon and who fires Lincoln Logs at his sister, felt left out yesterday. There was suddenly nothing exciting about spinning in the hallway in his pair of jeans when his sister could spin in a dress and get air underneath. So…
he raided her closet.
Here he is in his sister’s last year’s Easter dress.
And here he is in the same dress running with scissors.
By which time he changed his mind and found his sister’s Christmas dress.
Only I do not remember his sister pretending to walk like an old man when she wore it.
Or shoving her dirty socks up the cat’s face.
Which must mean that the clothes don’t change the true essence of a person. Hmm…
… how relieving is that?!
I had a dream about sleep. . . 