What they're wearing now

I always wished for a brother. During a drawn-out tomboy phase, I envisioned someone who would play basketball with me on the driveway or skateboard down the hill. When I was a teenager, I pictured a sibling who would be both protector and friend and who would bring home his own fun friends. What I never thought about were the clothes.

But in our house, at this moment, it's all about the clothes. My oldest daughter has become almost more interested in her brother's closet than her own. My youngest daughter looks carefully at what he's wearing and wants to wear the same. Suddenly, athletic shirts and shorts, crew socks, boy fleece, and grey T-shirts are all the rage.

The child least interested in fashion is leading the fashion pack. Who knows how it began or how long it will last. For one of us, it can't end soon enough. Because not only is the style of clothing appealing, the actual clothes are best of all. And he'd like his sweatshirt to stay on the shelf of his closet, not to find it at the bottom of his sister's backpack. He wants his socks to remain in his sock drawer. "That's mine!," I'll hear him yell from upstairs.

I suspect this may be his lot in life, and he certainly won't be alone. Sometimes the boy clothes are just better. But for now, I'll play my part, that of backup. "That's his," I'll say. "Go get your own jacket." I'm happy with my role: I know in seven short years, he'll be gone, and I'll no longer need to help defend his drawers. I'm confident he'll be ready. He's getting such good practice.

(If you're interested in more feminine fashion, Kate Spade is having a 75 percent off sale, but it ends tonight, so hurry.)

While the drawings are still girly, the everyday clothes are less so. Illustration by Livvy Fletcher.

Getting off the phone

Sooner or later, I was bound to drop my phone in the pond. Nearly every day I take our dog, Clementine, to a nearby pond to swim, and typically I'm holding a leash, a small bag of treats, and always my phone. This particular day, I put my phone under my arm to throw a stick, and it slipped and fell in the water.

It spent the next few days charging in a bowl of white rice. Each time I took it out of the rice and unplugged it from the charger, the phone turned on and off at will until it quickly lost all power. Even the short trip from charger to desk was too far, so back it would go.

I needed a new phone, but time got in the way, and for several weeks I did nothing about it. I simply left the phone charging and checked emails and texts from the kitchen counter. And I realized: not having my phone with me was something of a life-changer. Before, when I was stopped at a red light, I would check my phone. Before, while I waited at the orthodontist for a child to be done, I would read emails, send texts, or look at Instagram/Facebook/Twitter. I'd hear the ping of a new email or the different ping of a new text, and I would check as soon as I could.

Not having a phone with me meant sitting quietly at a red light, or reading a magazine at the orthodontist, or, even better, talking with the person beside me. I realized that before the phone-in-pond incident, I was on it all the time. I'd like to think I was better about it around my children, but I know I wasn't perfect. I know this because one night my oldest daughter, Kate, said to me, "I think not having a phone has been good for you."

I bought a new phone this weekend. I feel more comfortable having it with me when I'm out. But I'm going to try to hold on to my new after-the-phone-fell-in-the-pond life. I'm going to sit at a red light and pretend it's back home, sitting in a bowl of rice. I'm going to leave it in my bag while I'm waiting at the orthodontist. I'm going to try to be a little more present. And when I take Clementine for a walk, I'm going to leave it on the kitchen counter.

(Photo by Livvy Fletcher)

Married

Last night a friend asked me how long I had been married, and I couldn't remember. I knew it was either 15 or 16 years, either 1996 or 1997 but not which one. I was fairly certain my husband wouldn't know, either. It wasn't until I sat down later with a calculator that I figured it out. My other option would have been to dig up our wedding invitation.

One of the things I do remember about that time is going to wedding after wedding after wedding. It seemed as though there was one every weekend, usually requiring road trips, hotel rooms, pedicures, new dresses, and reunions with friends. All those weddings took a bit of effort but were so worth it. They were that much fun.

After the wedding stage came the non-wedding stage, where I remain today. The non-wedding stage consists of one wedding every five years or so, if I'm lucky. Definitely not enough. Not enough beautiful brides and beautiful dresses; earnest, clean groomsmen; scene-stealing flower girls; moments that make you cry and many that make you laugh; that feeling of two people starting out on a great adventure.

I got a little bit of a wedding fix last night when I read C Magazine's fall wedding issue. I loved seeing the dresses, the table settings, the flowers, the brides. I was intrigued by an article about Greg Kalamar, an artist from Los Angeles who paints scenes from people's wedding celebrations in the likeness of a Degas or Monet painting. The image below is a painting he did of a reception inside San Francisco's Ferry Building.

Meanwhile, looking forward to my next wedding invitation. I'll try to be patient.

(All images from C California Style Magazine)

Friend

Katie Cole and I were best friends from Kindergarten until the day she moved away in 4th grade. Here is what I remember about her:

1. She wore her blonde hair in two braids every single day.
2. Her mother's name was Priscilla, and she had a little sister named Sarah and a one-eyed Dachshund named Oliver.
3. One day I was sitting next to her on the school bus, and I lied to her about a grade on my report card because I wanted her to think I had done better than I had.
4. Both her parents grew up on farms in Iowa.
5. There was a big bump in the road in front of her house, and I always made sure to ride my bike over it when I went to play.
6. One day on the playground, she said something mean about me to a group of girls, and I went home and cried at the kitchen table with my mother. I forgave her the next day.
7. I sat in the bathroom and cried again the day she came to our house with her parents to tell us they were moving cross-country. Almost immediately after, or so it seemed to me, they were gone.

Two of my children each have a close friend who is moving far away in a month or so. Unlike my experience in the bathroom, both have known about the moves for a little while, and I hope this will make it easier. But they will miss their friends and will remember them when they're grown. I feel sure of that. But which memories will they take with them? I hope to find out when we get there.

Peony

Part 1

Six years ago, when we bought our house and did a renovation, there was very little left at the end for landscaping. We had budgeted for some "hardscaping" - a stone wall along the driveway, a smallish bluestone patio in the back, and a very small bluestone landing by the side door. Plantings were minimal, mostly because of cost, but also because I wasn't sure what I wanted.

I knew what I didn't want, though, and that was color. I consistently tore pictures from magazines (this was pre-Pinterest) of all-white and green gardens, and I thought they were beautiful. I'm not a big color person to begin with, so this was easy.

Part 2

Very slowly, over time, I began to add to the garden. They key to Part 2 was my good friend and neighbor who also is a professional gardener. We'd wander through nurseries and sometimes bring home a hosta, a boxwood, or some Solomon's Seal. She'd often stop by with a shovel and a bucketful of something she'd divided from her own garden or a client's, always white. "These will sulk for a while," she'd say, "but just wait."

Part 3

My mother's house was about to go on the market. I thought about how my children always asked if they could pick a Lamb's Ear from her front bed, I think mostly because they liked the name. I thought of her rose bush by the front door. I thought of her garden out back that had become overgrown but once had thrived, and which my mother had loved.

So we put on our boots and went back to see what was there. And what was there were peonies. Peonies that were not in bloom. I tried hard to remember what color they were but couldn't. I also couldn't leave them behind. So we dug them up and brought them home.

Part 4

For a while after the peonies were planted, nothing happened. Nothing happened for long enough that I began to think they hadn't survived the trip from one garden to the other. But then, this spring, buds began to appear on one of the plants, and one day those buds exploded into bloom.

A few days earlier, I had been talking to my 11-year-old about a big decision he had to make. I had asked him to try to explain to me what he was feeling, and he said, "I don't have the words."

That's how I felt when the peonies opened. They made me both happy and sad, but mostly happy. I took a picture with my phone and emailed it to my sister. She made me promise that if we ever move, we'll take the peonies with us, again.

One last thing: My all-white garden now is splashed with a deep, hot pink. That was the color I couldn't remember. Of course.

The peonies cut from my garden.

Fashion forward

It started with the designer Vera Bradley.

Several years ago, my daughter Kate fell in love with everything Vera Bradley: bags, wallets, lunch totes. Fortunately, she didn't need to look far. My mother had a pink Vera Bradley bag that was headed for a garage sale, so Kate grabbed it.

To me, the bag looked like something a grandmother would carry, precisely because a grandmother had carried it. And of course I love that particular grandmother. It just surprised me that this bag - and this designer - could look fresh and modern and appealing to not-yet-teenage eyes.

And it's not just Vera Bradley. If Kate were to make a list of shoes she's currently coveting, the list would be very, very long. One of the pairs on that list would be the "Authentic Original" leather boat shoe from Sperry, with the emphasis on "authentic original," meaning not the new, fun, sometimes sparkly Sperrys, but the ones that were popular when I was Kate's age. They're brown and sturdy-looking. To her, and many others, they're wonderful. I just can't get past their past, if that makes sense.

Then, the other night, I was reading the June issue of Martha Stewart Living, and there was an article about making summer handbags that look exactly like Bermuda bags. Remember Bermuda bags? With the wooden handles? I had forgotten all about them, and there they were. When I look at the picture of these bags above, I think they're really very cute and Spring-like. I just don't know if I could carry one - again.

Definitely part of this is just me. I'm showing my age. But a little part also might be Vera and Sperry and Martha. Because yesterday I was looking through the new Anthropologie catalog and saw a shift dress and a peasant dress, both of which looked like something my mother might once have worn, as well as something I had as a little girl. And guess what? I flipped over these dresses. I thought they were fresh and modern and so appealing. Go figure.

(Image from Martha Stewart Living.)

Clean!

Yesterday we had our windows cleaned.

It had been six years. Six years of dirt is a lot of dirt.

Once, in the days before children and when they were very young, we had our windows washed twice a year. Each spring and fall, the window-washing guys would trudge into the house with their buckets and sponges, and several hours later we would sparkle and shine. I don't know how they do it, because I've tried, and my results are not their results.

There is nothing better than a clean window and nothing worse - aesthetically speaking - than a dirty one. Six years of sticky hands, pollen, rain, and snow. Nearly three years of dog nose and wet, muddy paws on storm doors. When Frank, the owner of the window-washing company we've always used, came to the door, I didn't recognize him. I said hello and looked for Frank. It had been that long.

Now that we're sparkling and shining, I've vowed we'll never be grimy again. Window washing is expensive, and we've had so many other ways to spend that money. But clean vs. dirty? So worth it.

(In the picture above, you'll see paint starting to buckle, ready to peel. Yes, another project.)

Time flies

I'm having a time-is-flying-by moment. These spring weekends (and weeks) are so full, there's hardly time to think. It reminds me of having babies, when well-meaning people said, "Enjoy this time; it goes by so fast," and I thought, "I'm really trying, but mostly I'm feeling overwhelmed." We'll race to the end of spring, measured by the last day of school (the end of June in our case), and then it will all come to a halt, at least for a while. Yesterday, I went with one of my daughters on a field trip to the ocean, where we spent the day searching for crabs, shrimp, and starfish. We climbed over rocks, waded in icy-cold water, and ate picnic lunches on beach towels. I tried not to give in to the feeling that my field-trip days are numbered. As parents of 8-year-olds, we can still elicit screams of excitement from the school bus when it pulls into the parking lot and the children spot us waiting by our cars. That won't last, I know, but an 11-year-old and a 13-year-old remind me that what comes after also is good, just different.

I hope you have a very happy - and relaxing - weekend.

Dance

I spent the weekend sitting in a dark high school auditorium watching hundreds of girls (and a few boys) dance in a competition called "Showstoppers." I've made "Dance Moms" jokes too many times, and I've sat through too many awards ceremonies where, to the dancers, the difference between a second-place gold and double platinum is everything, while to me it's just confusing.

But there's much that's good about these events, and it's taken me a little while to understand that. My dance career began and ended with one ballet class in Kindergarten. My daughter Kate, on the other hand, has loved to dance since she was small, and she thrives on these competitions with their two-hour-ahead arrival times, multiple costume changes, and in-depth discussions afterward of what worked and what didn't.

Every time I see her on stage with her teammates, I get a lump in my throat. Every single time. Partly it's because they seem so joyful. Partly it's because any awkwardness they carry around with them in the rest of their lives disappears on stage. Partly it's because I can't imagine choosing to or being able to get on stage and do what they do. And it's the choosing I admire most. Perhaps some of them have dance moms who've pushed them to be there. But mostly, I think not. I think most of these kids have chosen to dance on a stage in a high-school auditorium on a Saturday night. They're from different towns, different studios, and are different ages and abilities, but they have this one thing in common. And I'm happy to have been there to watch.

(Edgar Degas. Dancers Climbing a Stair.)

13

My daughter Kate, as I've mentioned here before, is 13. You've heard me talk about her age because I can't quite believe it. I've had half a year to process this age, and still. How is possible she's a teenager, how in the world did it happen so fast, and how can I be the mother of a teenager when I was one myself just a minute ago (I know - ha)? I realize parents say this at every single age: How can it be that you're a month, a year, four years old, 10? For me, it's 13.

Kate got her hair cut the other day, and the stylist asked her what grade she's in. When she answered 7th, the woman looked quickly over at me with an expression that said "you poor thing." And then she said it out loud. You poor thing. I wasn't sure if she was referring to me or to Kate, but I understood her message. She went on to say she would not go back to 7th grade for anything in the world. She'd choose any year in high school over 7th grade.

What interested me about this conversation was that, though I knew Kate was listening, she seemed unaffected, unimpressed. And that's the thing about 13 and 7th grade: You're in it and it's all you know at that moment and it's OK. Certainly not every day is OK, and for some, few days are. But the other day, when I was driving Kate and two elementary-school friends home, we passed their old school. I asked them whether, if they could choose, they would go back or stay where they are. Instantly, they each said they would choose Middle School. They like going from class to class. They like that there are so many kids. They like that they're older. They like being 7th graders.

Someday they might say something different. They might say they wouldn't go back to 7th grade for anything in the world. But not now. For now, this is what they know. This is who they are.

(Getty Images)