Clothes that tell a story
Marking an era
I cleaned out my closet this weekend. While the dressers get cleaned out with the change of seasons every year, I can’t remember the last time I pulled everything out of my closet and went through it. Since I had already gone through all the clothes in my dresser and pulled out the things to put away until next spring, I thought I would pull summer things from the closet. But once I started, I realized that I hadn’t worn many of the clothes since before the pandemic. And since my house is more than 100 years old, the closet space is tight. Very, very tight. So I took everything out of the closet and started going through each item. I didn’t expect that so many of these dresses, skirts, shirts would bring me back to different parts of my life, would tell a story.
There are things I kept, though will not likely wear them again. The dress I wore to a magical wedding on top of a mountain. Snow falling down in the southwest just as the wedding party began to process. Such beauty and love at that marriage. A marriage that produced three kind, loving, generous, beautiful children. And caused their mother so much pain and heartache, she had to leave with her children and raise them alone. That marriage lasted just long enough to bring the third child into the world, but the mother’s journey to raise those children will never end. She loves them with all her heart and has put every ounce of herself into giving them the best life she can.
A beautiful red silk dress with cream colored polka dots and a flare skirt I wore to two dear friends’ wedding. One had officiated at our wedding four years earlier and the other had been our wedding coordinator. I remember the tears coming down T’s face as he gave us his blessing at our wedding. And five years later, when he met Z for the first time, he once again teared up with joy at this baby we had brought into the world. Though they have moved a far distance from us, they are always in my heart.
Other things had stories, but I didn’t feel compelled to hang on to them. A copper, crinkly, shiny taffeta skirt I wore to a wedding when M was only three months old. After a comparatively easy birth, M had a rough first few months of life. He was born with polydactyly on both hands, meaning that he had an extra finger without any bones on each hand. These were supposed to be removed when he was six weeks old, but at five weeks, he had to be hospitalized for RSV. I woke up one night to feed him, and he felt slightly hot. Because he was so tiny, I took his temperature, and it was just over 100. I called our pediatrician’s office, and the nurse listened to his little cough and told me to take him to the ER. I expected I would be home once they checked him out. But his oxygen levels were hovering around 80, and he was admitted. It was three days before Christmas. The pediatrician that came in the next morning to see him told me they had to grow bacterial cultures and since that would take several days, I should plan to be in the hospital through Christmas. I called my husband sobbing. Then I called my dad. When he finally understood what I was saying through my tears, he got in the car and drove almost 365 miles to be with us. We were discharged the next day, as M’s cough cleared and his oxygen levels normalized. At the end of January, when he was fully recovered, we took him in for surgery to remove what Z had dubbed his “funny fingers.” Everything went fine and he recovered easily. But holding your three-month old baby while they put him under anesthesia is just not a fun thing as a parent. So probably clear why I didn’t want to hang on to that skirt?
I wore a pretty summery dress when we took photos before L’s 8th grade semiformal. It was June 2022, and we were all so incredibly grateful that things were happening again. That the kids were allowed to have a dance and an 8th grade barbecue. It was a beautiful day and L got together with several of his friends for photos before the dance. I was so proud of him and thrilled to see him with friends enjoying himself. But the dress was an annoying wrap dress. Two of the snaps didn’t like to stay snapped and you had to put the ties through different slits in the dress. I was constantly worried it was going to just fall off me. So that one went in the donation pile.
Dress pants I hadn’t worn since I left my job at the Veteran’s Administration Medical Center almost 10 years ago. A beach dress I wore on our honeymoon in Hawaii. A bright orange, linen sundress I bought while in graduate school that was always a wrinkled mess. A black dress with brilliant red poppies I used to wear to work with tall, black boots. An off-white, flared skirt with tan tulips printed on it that I had worn to my brother-in-law’s college graduation.
Clothes that spanned more than 25 years. Memories of a life before I became a mother, of significant events and everyday activities. I didn’t expect that cleaning out my closet would be so reflective. The past six or so months have been a transition for me as I have realized that the organizing factor of my life for the past 18 years, parenting, will no longer be the center of my life in a few short years. Life looks different from this place than it did for the young woman attending those weddings—hoping to get pregnant at one, being newly pregnant at the other. Babies and toddlers and preschoolers and teens were abstract at that point—something I desperately wanted, but didn’t yet have or really understand. Then the babies arrived and life became too busy, too full for reflection. And suddenly, I am here on an overcast October morning, sorting through a pile of memories. Textures, patterns, colors reminding me of the life I have built and lived. I have done the things I most wanted to do—find a partner in life, become a mother, become a psychologist, build a community of friends and loved ones to raise children with—and what lies ahead feels less directed than any other part of my life has been. The primary goals have been reached, so what next? I’ve got plenty of time to think on it. M doesn’t graduate for another five years. But I wonder if 10, 15, 20 years from now I will pull out the purple sweatshirt I wore throughout COVID and remembering those years, put it firmly in the donation pile. Will I keep the dress I wore to Z’s high school graduation? The blue sweater I wear all winter long to stay warm while doing telehealth therapy appointments—what will be its fate? I hope that life remains as full and meaningful as the past 25 years have been. That watching my children build their own lives brings a new joy that I can’t quite grasp yet.