Dress for the job you have
in the process, it may become the job you want.
If you are reading via email, I suggest opening this on the Substack app or your browser if you’d like to see all 10+ images. Also, I do not get any commission for links—this is all ‘por amor al arte.’
As parents were not allowed on the school premises during the pandemic, car lanes were the only option we had to drop our kids off. When everything reopened, I naturally continued using the car lane for the sake of convenience in the morning until one day, my daughter asked me to walk her in, like many other loving parents do. The request implied a slight change of logistics: Instead of hopping in the car at 7:30 in the morning in Jeff’s 2001 t-shirts, leggings, driving loafers, and whatever coat I could find, I actually had to dress in, you know, clothes.
More than once, I questioned if proper pants were really necessary at 6 in the morning just to improvise elaborate french braids, fill my kids’ water bottles, and, on a good morning, ask them for the 16th time to brush their teeth. But off I went, wearing proper pants to walk them in. I got to hold their hands. I got to watch them diligently place their backpacks in their cubbies, folders on the shelf labeled with their names, and lunchboxes next to the classroom entrance. I got to notice when my oldest forgot the water bottle I filled for her earlier, on a 90-degree Florida summer day. I got to buy her a new one from the school store. I got to hug them goodbye (impossible from the car) and say hiiiiiii! to a million moms on their way to the office, the gym, or wherever they were all choosing to go.
I thought of my mom, who didn’t have a choice but to work a lot and never had the chance to drop us off in the morning or pick us up in the afternoon. I thought about the rare moments when she came to school for a function or something and I got to share with her the space where I spent most of my waking hours every day. I wondered if my kids felt the same joy in those few moments when I get a glimpse into their world every morning.
Regardless, getting dressed in the morning instead of staying in lounge clothes all day flipped a magical switch for me: it made me realize that this is my life. Not the life of the successful lawyer I worked for in my 20s, not the life of an accomplished art director I wanted in my early 30s, not the life of an artist in her 40s without gallery representation. This life, which I now recognize as mine. This life that clothes gave shape to, allowing me to acknowledge its very existence, its rhythm, my place in its flow. It was in the process of getting dressed to ask my daughters to brush their teeth for the 16th time every morning that I started to honor my role, to surrender to acceptance of what actually is, which is a very different feeling from conformity. Let alone resignation.
Yes, taking my kids to school is my occasion to wear clothes. Maybe followed by exercise. A stop at Publix to restock flowers, yogurt, toothpaste. Running an errand or two while listening to an episode of Dr. Becky on how to better arbitrate my kids' arguments. Or to stop being an arbitrator altogether and let them figure it out. To make art. To lie in bed when I get home to write or scroll or overshare or whatever. To order lunch and eat it alone. To share 178 TikToks with Jeff that I find pretty funny. To look at my screen time in a stupor and then pick up a book until it’s time to pick my kids up again. To ask them about their day with open-ended questions that improve my chances of getting the scoop on their routine. What was the most fun part of your day? What wasn’t so great? Who did you play with? What did you learn in drama? What did you like about music? ¿Cómo les fue en Español? I also wear clothes to arbitrate the random fights that erupt about the perfect car temperature. To crank up the A/C because one of them is hot. To lower it because the other one is cold. To lose it a million times and apologize a million others like Dr. Becky recommends. To stop by Fresh Market and get a few ready-meals they like. Sushi that doesn’t touch the wasabi. Lemon pepper rotisserie chicken without too much pepper. Or good old Chick-fil-A grilled nuggets. To say no the milkshake. Or yes, depending on the day. To ask them a few more questions about their day that they will inevitable be too tired to respond.
Until Jeff texts saying he is leaving work. By the time he gets home, the girls are fed and him and I go through the motions of bedtime led by Alexa’s voice: 7 p.m. this is a reminder, time to shower. 7:30 p.m. this is a reminder, time to brush your teeth, 7:35 p.m. this is a reminder, time to read, 8 p.m. this is a reminder, time for bed. When they fall asleep and Jeff and I finally lie down, we go over the 178 TikToks he didn’t get a chance to open during his work day. I find them funny all over again. We laugh together.
The other night after the house quieted down, I took off my #ootd and realized that getting dressed to be a mom, usually in classics, in staples that make me feel good with a touch of something fun or messed up or whatever, has become a grounding exercise, a constant coming back to the closet fundamentals that give me an illusion of permanence, of stability, perhaps to offset the speed at which everything happens. Perhaps to accept how quickly they grow. How fleeting it all is.
10 p.m. this is a reminder, time for bed.
Do you like salsa? If so, here is a great song from La Sonora Ponceña I’ve had on repeat. I repeat songs like I repeat clothes. I danced to it last Friday wearing this:
Loved reading this and seeing the outfits you put together!
Thank you for your thoughtful perspective …I need inspiration and a kick in the butt now that I’m retired 🩷