"Clothing Wars"

I can sleep thru anything. My parents planned it that way. My dad said that folks 
who tiptoed around the house when baby was napping, were raising a kid who'd always 
have trouble sleeping. So they left the radio on and carried on normal conversations, 
etc. The ultimate was to take me to basketball games and sit in the pep section, 
between the cheerleaders and the pep band!

It was the second marriage for both of them, but I don't think I was mom's first 
baby. My grandma (dad's mom) mentioned that when I was born and she came to the 
hospital to see me, my other grandma (mom's mother) was not there. Gran said she 
asked why and mom said they were waiting to see if "this one" was okay before they 
had her mom come to the hospital. Grandma said she was surprised at how alert I was 
for a baby. She said my eyes were focused and I looked right at her and smiled. I 
guess I recognized my guardian angel on sight, because grandma was the anchor of 
my life, and the main source of unconditional love for me growing up. I miss her 
terribly. Grandma taught me to sew and bought me my first hot pants outfit. She 
lived near the college and noticed what all the coeds were wearing (and how my 
clothes didn't measure up). She helped me hem all my dresses when mini-skirts 
came in. She bought me a little singer portable for graduation.

When I was a toddler, mom sewed lots of matching outfits for me, her, and a doll 
she got me (that looked like her). There are lots of photos of the three of us in 
our matching dresses. She used to get lots of compliments on how cute we were--until 
I got old enough to answer back (around 3 or 4). Then suddenly everyone started 
talking to me --"aren't you just the cutest thing" --and mom got jealous. She 
stopped making the matching outfits, and the doll disappeared. I don't know if 
she gave it to charity, or if she threw it down the well like she did my stuffed 
animals.

Mom still made me dresses, but now used the ugliest fabric she could find--one 
had green giraffes on a dull rust background! I got ugly brown shoes--she said 
they were needed to support my ankles while I was growing, but the other little 
girls had pretty white ankle shoes and I had the ugly brown ones that looked like 
boys shoes. She chopped my hair off too short, above my ears, but couldn't stop 
it waving and curling on it's own. I think dad and grandma complained, because 
after that she let it grow for years.

When I was four or five my left arm got burned with a steam iron--I have the scar 
to this day. Mom told dad that I had laid my arm over the ironing board and the 
iron fell over on it, pinning my arm to the board, and that I couldn't move until 
she came and rescued me. She said I "owed her" for saving me. Note: At that time 
I could walk under the ironing board standing up--I would have had to climb up on 
a chair to get my arm high enough to lay across the board. I've blanked out what 
actually happened (I suspect it was a punishment for something, and that I was 
threatened to never tell). There's a lot of my childhood that I don't remember. 
When I was a teenager I asked what caused the scar on my arm and that ironing board 
story is what I was told. I just remember waking in the night crying because my 
arm hurt. I was dreaming that I had stuck my hand in high weeds and that it came 
out covered with ants biting me. When I woke up I saw a bandage on my arm and dad 
was sitting with me, putting a cool cloth on my forehead. Dad was always the one 
that took care of me when I was sick.

Occasionally there would be a school event coming up that mom knew her friends 
would attend (she taught at a different school), so she'd make me one nice outfit. 
Even then she extracted her toll. I remember a rather nice blue dress with a circle 
skirt and a bodice that buttoned up the front. She had me try it on and stand on 
the dining table so she could mark the hem, but first she pinned on the neck facing. 
She pinned it all the way around my neck with the pins pointing in--just denting 
the skin of my neck. Then she said "don't move now, or those pins will rip your 
head off!" Then she took a phone call from a friend and sat there chatting for 
what seemed like forever, while I had to stand like a statue on the table, afraid 
to even breathe.

A lot of my clothes came hand-me-down from my cousin, who was buxom, blonde, and 
six years older. So they were the wrong colors for skinny, brown-haired me. They 
were also usually about 4 years out of style. I know I had the same "best outfit" 
for photo day in 7th and 8th grade (and would have used it for 9th, except the 
weather was unexpectedly warmer that year).

By sixth grade I was as tall as mom, so I got some of her hand-me-down clothes 
too. The upside was that I was now physically as strong as her, so when she tried 
to push my face in the toilet, I pushed back successfully. She never tried that 
again. She went for more subtle, psychological punishments after that.

I think she had given up on the beatings by then too. We always preferred that 
she use the "wait till your father gets home" method. Dad used a belt, but he'd 
talk to us first and tell us why we were getting punished, and how many licks we 
were getting. That leather belt really hurt, but we could take it. He used to use 
his hand until the time my brother stuck a book in his pants and dad hurt his hand 
hitting it. Or maybe it was the time that my other brother (still in diapers) had 
done a BM and dad didn't realize it before he hit (and it squirted everywhere!)--we 
got quite a laugh over that one. Mom, on the other hand, would continue beating 
until she got tired, or broke what she was beating us with. Sometimes she'd even 
continue then. I remember one time she was beating my brother with the yardstick 
and hit the doorframe and broke it--she kept beating him with the splintered end 
and was drawing blood. My other brother and I screamed and beat at her with our 
fists, hanging on her arms until she stopped. The beatings were always worse in 
the summer because school was out. She didn't have to go to work, so she was with 
us all day; and we weren't in school so there was no one to see the welts on our 
legs and ask about them. She'd send us to bed before dad got home, or give him 
some lame explanation. I think he just didn't look that closely either. 

I always thought the sparse, poor clothing I got was because we were poor, until 
I changed schools. Before that, even the few times she let me come along to shop 
(when I had to have new clothes because I had outgrown everything) she'd let me 
try on several and then she'd pick the most unflattering outfit, no matter how 
much I begged for a different one. I tried to fake her out by pretending not to 
like my favorite, in hopes she'd pick it--but she always knew just the perfect 
WRONG one to buy. There was the loud gray and yellow plaid jumper that looked like 
an old lady dress. With it she got the school bus yellow blouse with three-quarter 
sleeves (making my gawky adolescent arms look even more lanky and skinny), not to 
mention that yellow was my absolute worst color. And there was the turdy-brown, not 
quite tweed jumper with the scratchy voile, not-the-same-color-of-brown blouse, 
and yet-another-shade-of-brown tights.

My sophmore year there were rumours that my school would be closing in a year. My 
parents didn't want me to have to transfer senior year (and neither did the school 
principal--since it was clear I would be eligible for many scholastic honors) so I 
transferred mid-year to mom's school. Suddenly there was a rush to get me new 
clothes. Mom bought bunches of lovely fabrics--wide wale courderoys in chocolate 
and cream, solids in rich burgundy and teal and silky prints in colors I loved--and 
took them to a professional seamstress to get cute culottes and skirt outfits with 
long matching vests and pullover blouses. They were the nicest clothes I ever had. 
She also took me shopping at the best store in town to get a few outfits to tide 
me over until the others were ready. I realized then that all the new clothes were 
because I was going to be in HER school, and she didn't want my shoddy clothes to 
reflect poorly on her in front of her colleagues. That change really opened my 
eyes about her motives in everything pertaining to me. Mom was always nice to me 
in front of other people, but that was it. It took me years to realize that the 
flaw was not in me, but in her.

Once I started college I had a work-study job, so mom informed me I could now buy 
my own clothing. She took me to the bank to open my first checking account, 
depositing my scholarship check, and then took me to shop to be sure I knew how 
to write out a check. I remember that first purchase--a white blouse for $7.50--and 
oddly enough that check was never cashed by the store. Most of my college outfits 
I made myself. I could buy fabric and patterns much cheaper than I could clothing, 
and I'd have an outfit that noone else would be wearing. I loved picking out the 
fabrics to go with a particular style outfit. I even made my own business attire 
for years after I graduated. I haven't really sewn in years, but I still love going 
to fabric stores and looking thru catalogs and fashion magazines. I have probably 
more clothes than I need (I realize it is a reaction for all the years I had such 
limited choices), but I'm happy now with my own sense of style.
 
c. 12/2008