imitation

In a post a while ago, I wrote about watching my mother put on her make-up and how I thought she was beautiful.  I wanted to grow up, be sophisticated, wear high heels and make-up, and look elegant all the time (the way I judged her to look).  As it turned out, when I started my career and for about the first 20 years of it, I was expected to wear suits or dresses, panty-hose, and heels to work every day.  I hated having to dress up, and the first thing I did when I got home from work was change into jeans and comfy shoes.  

I remember once when Sarah was little, maybe three years old, she was sitting on my bed and watching me get ready for a date.  A friend had invited me to a party at a country club – a very fancy party so I wanted to look nice.  Sarah sat and watched, talking non-stop as I put make-up on, painted my nails,  and curled my hair.  She asked, “Don’t you think you’ll be the most beautiful lady there?”  Do you suppose all young children think their mothers are pretty?  I assured her that I wanted to look OK in comparison to the other ladies.  I stood to walk out of the room and Sarah stated loudly, “Oh poor Mommy, you teared your pretty dress!”  OH NO!  I turned and looked in the mirror, and only saw the short slit in the skirt back of my dress (it was supposed to be there).   I explained to her that it was a design feature called a slit or a pleat that makes a dress easier to sit and climb steps in.  Sarah said that the next time she got a new dress, she wanted one with a “slut” in the back.  It made me smile.  

Isn't she lovely?