church clothes.

Going to church all the time wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been for the dreaded... 

…church clothes.

Up until I was a grown-ass adult, I was required to wear my Sunday best to church each week. In the 90s, that meant frilly dresses, those socks with the lacy ruffles (or white tights if it was cold out), and patent leather shoes with buckles. As I grew out of the cute childhood stage and into the early 2000s awkward teenage phase, it meant ill-fitting khakis and oversized sweaters.

I looked SO bad.

Complete with teenage attitude.

(Not that I looked any better in non-church clothes at that time, but that’s not my point.)

Why, oh why, I begged my parents, couldn’t I wear jeans to church like so many of my peers? Surely it didn’t matter what I was wearing as long as I was there?

Oh, but it did matter. I think my parents’ reasoning was something along the lines of “if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”

If it meant I never had to wear tights again, probably.

I have never been the girliest girl on the face of the planet. I would say I land squarely in the middle. As a kid, I loved to play in the forest, but I had a favorite dress I would wear while doing it. I played Barbies all the time, but my Barbies never had kids or husbands. Dress-up was a favorite past-time, but I didn’t come around to wearing makeup until I was a senior in high school. Even today, you’ll always find me neatly made-up with my nails done, but I have no clue how to do my hair.

My childhood church clothes were decidedly girly, and in a bullshit kind of way. Anyone who has ever had to wear those ruffly socks can tell you – they are not comfortable. They were itchy, and the ruffles never stayed folded the way you wanted them to. The patent shoes you wear with them were always pinchy, no matter what size they were. 1990s torture devices.

But look how cute!

Church was a fashion show, even if you might not think of it as one. Communion Sunday was when you really strutted your stuff. That’s when the whole congregation lined up to get to the front of the church where the wine and wafers were, and you could see what everyone was wearing. You had to look your best on Communion Sunday.

I came home from college one weekend and put on my standard issue church clothes on Sunday – I may not have gone to church when I was AT college, but the rule still stood when I was home from college. I came down the stairs to find a stunning sight: my brother, sister, and father, all wearing jeans! Cold would be the day in hell that would happen, I had been told as a teenager! You’d better believe I went immediately back upstairs to change.

Ever since then, with the exception of weddings and funerals, I have worn jeans to church. The only time I attend church is with my parents, so I am following their lead. And it truly does make going to church so much better. My church khakis can burn in hell.

the Sunday School teachers.

Sunday School. 

I'm sure you're familiar.

It's the hour-ish before or after church where, as a child, you get a kid-friendly dose of Bible learning. In the church where I grew up going, there was Sunday School available from the age of three all the way up until you were a freshman in high school.

To me, it was just more church. I couldn't wait to be done. 

I was finally confirmed a few months into my sophomore year of high school. In Lutheranism, that means you’re a “full” member of the church. You have gone through everything Sunday School has to offer, and you have confirmed (see what they did there?) you believe everything that was said at your baptism. You promise to be a good church-goer and to do your best for your fellow humans.

It essence, it means you’re a Sunday School graduate. I was ELATED. No more hour-long learning sessions after we’ve already sat through church. My weekly time in that church building had just been cut in half – or so I thought.

You see, in South Dakota, you can get your restricted license at 14. They figure we’re already driving farm vehicles as soon as we’re tall enough; might as well just make it legal. I would have been 15 at the time of my confirmation, and thanks to my parents purchasing my grandma’s old Buick, I had a car at my disposal. I knew there was no way I would get out of going to church every Sunday while I lived under my parents’ roof, so I figured I would just drive separately to church while my parents and siblings stayed behind for Sunday School. My mom taught Sunday School music, so I even offered to take Dad home with me! What a gem I was.

As quickly as my plan was made, it was vanquished by my parents. We lived 15 miles out of town, which would mean 30 miles of extra gas for a second vehicle to go to town and back again. Now, didn’t I think that was silly? I was then awarded two choices with what to do with my formerly-filled-by-Sunday-School hour.

            I could:

1.      Sit in the fellowship hall with Dad and “visit.” (And no, I could not bring a book and read in a corner.)

2.      Become a Sunday School teacher.

Let me first introduce you to the Midwestern idea of “visiting.” Contrary what you might think, you’re not visiting anyone. To have a visit with someone is a Midwesternism for a drawn-out small talk session. Rarely does “visiting” turn into a substantial conversation – it’s a whole lot of surface level nonsense in a block of time much longer than it needs to be. To “visit” with Dad would mean being subjected to an hour’s worth of chatter involving the weather, farming, who recently died, and – if I was lucky – how school was going.

Can you tell I’m not into “visiting”?

I decided I’d do pretty much anything before I’d subject myself to “visiting” every Sunday for the foreseeable future. I would become… a Sunday School teacher.

Another thing you must understand is my church was absolutely desperate for Sunday School teachers. I was 15, after all. I could’ve had an entire classroom to myself – anyone with a pulse could have – but I signed up to team-teach that year.

I don’t remember much about my first year of Sunday School teaching except I decided it was indeed better than visiting. I signed up to do it when I was a junior, and again as a senior.

My junior year was when my best high school friend Bob and I began our two years of team-teaching. We volunteered to teach third grade, which was the oldest grade you could get while still keeping your teaching time down to half-an-hour.

Bob and I put serious blood, sweat, and tears decorating our classroom. And it was a sight to behold. We had a jungle theme one year, and it could have been an actual jungle in there. We stapled giant green palm leaves to the ceiling and plastered the walls with construction paper animals. We made use out of anything and everything we could find in the Sunday School supply closet. We hung inflatable fish and old CDs from the ceiling with fishing wire. Our door was covered with that amazing paper you get off those gigantic rolls in schools, and our students’ names jumped out in colorful print. We snatched the spare bean bag chairs and placed those in our room. We found a little foam cutout of a dove and named it “Fernando” – our class mascot.

What did we teach? Honestly, I don’t have much of a clue. There was some kind of loose lesson plan we followed, but as neither of us were big on Bible lecturing, we often deferred to games and worksheets. Word finds, crossword puzzles, scavenger hunts, lots of drawing (self-portraits, imaginary animals, what does heaven look like), you name it. I’m pretty sure we even played Bible Hangman at one point.

Bob’s and my classroom was so colorful and welcoming, we found ourselves hanging out there after school. During my senior year, I can remember spending hours sitting on those bean bags and going over vocabulary for that week’s advanced biology test. My grade in that class wouldn’t have been near as good had it not been for that classroom.

Our classroom did not go unnoticed. Pastor Loren, who was the pastor at that church for my entire young life, absolutely LOVED it. It was a lot different than the other rooms, that’s no joke. He even made us a CD-ROM full of photos he took of the room and wrote us a letter telling us how great and “conducive to learning” he thought it was. High praise for a couple of teenagers with a stapler and no idea what they’re doing.

When I graduated high school, my Sunday School teaching days came to an end. I was relieved that I didn’t have to scrounge for activities from week to week, but I was going to miss it.

Every essay about teaching has to end with a “what teaching taught me” portion, so here’s mine. Teaching Sunday School taught me church volunteering could be fun, but only with your friends. It also taught me I was in no way cut out to be a real teacher. Important life lessons to be had.

mmmbye.

 "Ope" has been having a moment.

For the unfamiliar (re: non-Midwesterners), "ope" is a polite interjection, akin to "oops." The most famous example is "ope, lemme sneak right past ya," which is Midwestern for "pardon me, I'd like to get by" or "I'm so sorry; I bumped you."

Phineas has been saying "ope" since he was three. (He's very polite.)

It was a major shock to me when I saw "ope" first appear on the internet. Like - I thought that was just something I heard in my small corner of the world. Oh no - it encompasses the entire region. Say "ope" anywhere in this huge-ass region, and you won't get a second look. 

You can get "ope" shirts. I have teeny "ope" earrings. I've seen "ope" tattoos. It's a whole personality.

Wall art.

We're not here to talk about "ope," though.

I want to talk about a Midwestern-ism that has seemingly flown under the radar. 

Mmmbye.

Are you a Midwesterner? Have you noticed this? 

I would describe "mmmbye" as the Midwestern conclusion to a non-personal call. Not impersonal, mind you, but non-personal. Like when you call your local bank.

If you are a Midwesterner, it's just about a guarantee you say it without even knowing it. Once I started paying attention, it turns out I say it all the time. It's my "professional goodbye." Weird, right? It's automatic. 

I've tried to be more conscious about not doing it, but it's HARD. Just "bye" is almost too harsh for our Midwestern sensibilities, so you kind of need that "mmm" to lead into it. But it's SO WEIRD. Why the "mmm"? Who started it, and why do so many of us do it?

Common variations include "ok, bye," and "yep, bye." 

Listen to a Midwesterner on the phone sometime and see what their goodbye is like. Odds are the word "bye" is preceded  by something - doubtful you'll hear "I'll talk to you later - bye." You'll hear "I'll talk to you later - ok, bye." 

Hell, call me at the library and pretend to be someone I don't know. Chances are I'll "mmmbye" you.

Damn, the Midwest is weird.

the perfect parent.

I'm the perfect parent.

In my head.

Ten years ago.

Before I had kids.

We all are, though, aren't we? That child over there, crying and screaming in the restaurant - our child would NEVER. No, our child will be the most perfect angel because we will (gently) train them how to behave in public. It's easy; why doesn't everyone just do that?

Haaaaaaaahahahahahhahahahaaaa.

What an idiot.

From the moment I held itty bitty Phineas in my arms in March 2020, everything I thought I knew evaporated.

Turns out kids don't really give a shit what you want them to do.

My imaginary kids would...

go to bed on time.

This has maybe happened twice in all the time both of my children have spent on this earth. You get home from work, eat supper, give them baths, and WHAT HOW IS IT 9PM??! If, by some miracle, you happen to get all that nonsense done at a decent time, your kids will somehow have enough energy to power a small city and will very much not be going to sleep any time soon despite your best efforts.

My imaginary kids would...

be perfectly behaved out in public.

We have never taken them both grocery shopping, and at this stage, I never plan to. Every time we go to a restaurant with them, we say to each other, "This is why we don't go to restaurants."

My imaginary kids would...

always listen to me. 

This is a good one. I'd say it takes me an average of five asks to get Phineas to do something. He will flat-out ignore me most of the time, and I do have to resort to counting a lot of the time (though I have not yet gotten to 3). Sometimes he will flat-out say "no," which I never would have DARED say to my parents so wtf am I doing wrong?! 

My imaginary kids would...

not watch screens for more than a few minutes a day.

Another good one. Turns out? You have to entertain your children. ALL THE TIME. And sometimes, to remain sane, you need a break from that. Enter: the tablet. It's ok to let the iPad parent for a bit. Phineas has learned a ton of stuff that way. HE knows everything about every brand of washing machine - just ask him. He watches Peppa Pig, so now he says little British-isms like "who will watch over us?" and "biscuits" instead of "cookies." Word to the wise, though: tread carefully on YouTube. If you're not careful, your kid will get hooked on Cocomelon or Blippi. Then you'll want to smash that tablet Office Space-style.

My imaginary kids would...

never leave the house looking unkempt.

More like "never leave the house looking kempt." 

                                                                Cute, but not kempt.

I had images of children dressed in sweet little outfits, hair brushed neatly. What I have is kids dressed in whatever sort-of matching clothes that are clean and environmentally appropriate with hair that is most certainly standing up in a weird way but is clean so we'll just call that good enough. If you tried to wet down and then comb my four-year-old's crazy morning hair, you'd understand. The screams can be heard across town.

My imaginary kids would...

keep their toys contained to their rooms.

Kids make a mess the likes of which I have never known. I'm no clean freak, but this is something else. Toys, sippy cups, tiny socks, Cheerios... their shit is EVERYWHERE. I'm tempted to throw a match and start over.

My imaginary kids would...

not prevent me from living my life.

Years ago, some friends of mine who had recently had a baby said something that has stuck with me: "the baby is joining our lives; we are not joining theirs." That was going to be my parenting mantra. We could have kids and still be ourselves. Let me tell you - that plan went up in flames, and it went up in flames FAST. No more taking off for weekend trips to the cities on a whim. No more summer road trips car-camping. No more fancy drink places. No more endless book reading for me. No more leisurely taking photographs on a spring day-trip while James hikes a trail. My life has been completely turned upside down, and it barely resembles the one I had before. Someday, we'll be a little less restricted, but right now, our kids are soon-to-be-5 and almost 18 months. We're in the trenches.

So no, I am not the perfect parent with the perfect children I imagined. Turns out no one is. Parenthood has given me a totally different perspective, though. Childless me, when hearing a baby crying on an airplane, would have been fairly annoyed. Parent me feels deeply for the parents who are currently dealing with that child - and is also quite grateful it isn't me.

So while I can't control most situations, I can control this one: my child will never be the one crying on an airplane because I will hope to not bring them on an airplane until they're old enough to fend for themselves. Problem solved!

THE outfit.

 You know when you're a kid, you have an outfit or two that you wore to death because you love it SO MUCH and you think you look SO AMAZING and how could anyone ever resist your charms?

That's what this story is about.

Those outfits.

They're not limited to when you're a kid, though. They're the outfit you know you're packing when you go on vacation. The outfit you think of instantly if you're taking family pictures. The outfit you throw on when you know you want to look good and you don't even need to think twice about it.

Let's start at the beginning.

This gem is from 1992. I loved this dress so much my mom found another one in a larger size so I could wear it even longer. I wore it everywhere - at home, at daycare, with my friends, playing Barbies, running through the woods - seriously everywhere. This is the first item of clothing I can remember completely adoring and being devastated when the (second) dress got too small and had to be retired.

I was hugely into dresses for the first several years of my academic life. As you can see, this one is far too short, but thanks to athletic shorts, it lived a little longer. The jelly shoes really tie the whole thing together.

These outfits get to share an entry as humble representatives of the puff paint sweatsuit age. I loved them - my mom would make them for me from time to time, and if I was really lucky, I'd get to add some embellishments myself. Damn, we really should resurrect these beauties.

If memory serves, my aunt and uncle in Denver bought me the shoes (FOAM PLATFORM WEDGES, BABY), and my grandma bought me the dress to go with them. I couldn't have been much older than 10. I felt like a million bucks. (Can you see my hemp necklace?!) I remember my parents not being too sure about the shoes - odds were good I was going to break my neck - but I managed with no injuries. I did have to throw them away within a few years, though, when the foam top pulled apart from the platform. A true tragedy.  

The dress. The shoes. Have you ever seen anything so Y2K? It was my go-to for any semi-special occasion for YEARS. I thought the combination of the two made me look particularly grown up. It must have been the daisies.

Whoof, enter the perm/glasses/braces stage of my life. Not easy. Anyway, I was really into white jeans at the time. That shirt was a favorite of mine, but I thought it showed (gasp) TOO MUCH CHEST - hence the white t-shirt underneath. 

And now - high school! My aunt Jan bought me that shirt and matching tank top for cousin pictures circa 2003(?), and I wore it to DEATH. I don't think I could even take it to college because I wore it so much in those last two years of high school. (It was from Maurices, if you're curious. I'm sure you were.)

Here comes a distinct shift - I started to care a good deal more about how I looked. This is the first picture in which I am wearing makeup and have purchased the item I am wearing myself. I wore that sweater all the damn time even though, as you can see, it is slightly too small and didn't zip up past my chest. (It's not like I have ever been accused of being busty - it was Hollister brand and comically tiny.)

That tank top was a constant presence in my closet for ages. I wore it with that khaki jacket. I wore it with a white cardigan. I wore it with this flowy white skirt thing. I wore it with everything. It was a baby doll cut and not flattering for anyone carrying a single extra ounce below the chest, but still, I persisted. 

Yes, it's a sweater vest. I also loved those jeans, even though they were the lowest of low rise. Low rise jeans were such a curse, even then.

Welcome to college! That grey shirt was a heavy lifter in the first couple of years. I thought I looked damn good with my v-neck bedazzled nonsense, and always that black necklace. 

I wore that skirt for everything - especially when "nice" attire as required. I bought it for next to nothing on a Target clearance rack and kept it for a solid decade. It was the best jazz dance shirt, since it poofed out nicely when twirled.

The photo on the right came first, but I wore this tank top/cardigan combination on James's and my first date. So cute. Much like my stripey skirt, it was a no-brainer when I was supposed to look "nice."

This dress is the only item of clothing I still have out of all these outfits. My mom found it at Goodwill, and it is probably the single most flattering thing I have ever owned. Brown is generally not my go-to color, but when it comes to this dress, I'm all in.

Now we're as close to up to speed as we can be. This is the most recent outfit I can think of - my coral lacy shirt that I wore absolutely everywhere and all the time. I wore this to my 10-year high school reunion, which is the biggest deal ever. Tragically, it doesn't fit any more (damn kids), but if it did, you'd better believe I'd be wearing it to my 20-year reunion this summer. It was just that great.

-----

I've had dozens more of those outfits throughout the years, but somehow, I haven't had one for a good ten years. I know I haven't had one since I've had kids. Is it something that fades away as you get older, or is that just something that happened to me? Or my body image? I do think I kind of look like shit most of the time, whereas these outfits all made me feel like DAMN I LOOK GOOD. 

Well, whatever happened, it sucks. I want my arsenal of good outfits back. Especially if they're puff painted sweat suits.