Last night I wore my “mom jeans” (and by the way, as I update this blog, this was written before the term “mom jeans” was in style.)
They aren’t your typical mom jeans either. They didn’t pouch at the front or have a strange, old-fashioned feeling about them. In fact, the reason I call them mom jeans is that they were jeans my mom, Nancy, gave me just one short month before she died. Even though her body was obviously becoming useless to her, her voice no longer obeyed her mental commands to talk to her daughters and tell them what she meant after severe stroke and mental illness, and even though she could barely walk without the assistance of a walker, I remember our last visit well. It was for her birthday, not mine, and as usual, she was the giver of the best gifts.
I remember her hobbling over to a bag of prearranged clothes she was setting aside for my out-of-state visit. One of the things my dad loved to do with and for her was to take her to stores and malls and let her pick out small items. Sometimes she would tantrum when she didn’t get her way (something she never would have done before, but we all know women at malls, anyway, notwithstanding the mental issues she was dealing with!) Many times however, the budget and the moods were right for her to pick out items for her beloved family. One such item that fell into her bag one day, were my mom jeans.
At seventy years old, my mom had more style than she did while raising me when she probably didn’t have the heart or time or money for style, so although we hated the stroke for what it had done to her mental faculties, we all noticed a certain oomph and flair that had seized her, and sometimes the clothes she picked out exercised that dramatic edge. It wasn’t immoral flair, but just a wild streak we had never seen before, and that we realized probably also came with the freedom of not caring what people thought anymore, something we all begin to long for as we age. She already knew she was a Christian woman who loved God, she knew her plight with this disease was horrible, and yet she knew that life was precious and short, and style still had a place. In other words, she still shared beauty with the world in her own way, sometimes through fashion.
The jeans were part of that beauty. I remember when she handed me the bag, me a Wheaton grad who was always trying to dress sporty, casually, or preppy, possibly chic on a night on the town. I peeked inside, and amidst some other clothes that looked like they would be fun and fit my personality, were these jeans. Pale blue, skinny jeans with pale pinkish red stripes going down the front, top to bottom. They looked……fun. Like something I would never in a million years have thought to pick out, and though mom was not able to think clearly almost at all anymore, mind you, they were the perfect fit. If you know my dad at all, you’d know that he was not able to have chosen these jeans. He, being like me in the plain or more boring clothing style ,and beyond having a clue what size jeans his thirty year old daughter wore, did not pick them out nor did anyone for one second imagine he did. And when I hesitated after seeing them, and one of my sisters or older nieces giggles and encouraged me to try them on, mom urged on also. “Yes,” she said simply but with great intention, “Yes.”
I went into the bathroom with that fun feeling you always get whilst trying something on that isn’t your style at all, but your heart is mildly beating and you wonder if this may be a perfect mystery pieces to make or break your current closet ensembles. I remember the rich feeling, one I had taken for granted so many times before, of putting on clothes gifted to me by my mother, that person who cared for me and made me feel like a princess with her thoughtfulness and care. This feeling was extremely rare these days and I was holding on to it more cognizantly for a moment this time, aware that it may be one of the last, if not the last time.
And oddly enough, the jeans were a perfect fit. They, being skinny jeans, were not the stretchy kind of skinny jeans, but were the exact fit for me. Mom, in all of her eccentricities and handicaps had bought me a pair of jeans that was fun and rockster and full of style, fitting me like a glove. I proudly displayed my jeans, for mom to see one last time. She nodded and raised her eyebrows in approval and admiration, the same look she had given me so many seasons before. “Yes!” she said with enthusiasm. I drank it in. I announced to my sisters and fashionista niece who was now enjoying peals of laughter at the fun of her grandmother’s surprising style, that these were my new concert jeans that would be worn to every concert event I attend in the future. I know some of my more conservative friends wouldn’t want to be seen with me in them, but I didn’t care. Mom was right, something you just have to have style and stand out just a bit. Mom was classy above all, mind you, these jeans didn’t have racy holes cut in them and weren’t over the top, but she knew me, and I think that as a young mom of three kids, including a nine month old, that she knew that I needed a little more fun in my life.
I wore those jeans to a concert last night, and while I got a few raised eyebrows from others (and I didn’t pay attention to whether they were approving or not, I have learned that there is no time to care!), my daughters came to me and admired them. I told them, “My mom bought them for me,” proudly, like I was still part of the “club” for a moment, the people who still have a mother to care for them, the ones who know that feeling, that so many of us who have lost parents and close loved ones along the way ache to be part of again, when we see the pictures scroll through on Instagram or Facebook or when we see mothers and daughters enjoying special times together. These jeans and so many other great trinkets my mom left behind for me, are that for me.
So, if you ever see me running around in a pair of pale striped jeans (you probably won’t as they are starting to get a bit tight, post 40!), don’t call the fashion police just yet. Just know that I am wearing my “mom jeans,” remembering that loving mother who is now in Heaven, and the one who is telling me to go ahead and let my hair down and to relax, the one who is telling me that beauty lies within and not to take myself so seriously, the one who saw me and loved me for who I was, and who even forgave me for moving away from her during her darkest days. I don’t know how to be that woman but I want to be like her. That’s why today I write this birthday memorandum for her. Happy birthday, mom, once again the first gift was to me. Love you and miss you so much! I aspire to be half the wonderful and selfless mother you were to me and I pray you smile down upon my life with joy. I will try to live in a way that honors all you gave to me, even when it’s really hard.
(Above, my daughters and I three years later, me still rocking the jeans!)