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Now going into my fourth year (of motherhood), I have to say that the crazy, mind-boggling and often completely overwhelming no longer seems so incomprehensible, but instead just commonplace. Over this holiday weekend we attended a BBQ, had a day at the pool and an evening with friends at our house. Each and every event was filled with kids, noise, chaos, confusion and half-finished sentences in between broken conversations. Each set of parents juggled food, spills, trips to the toilet, bumps, cries and negotiations over who did what to whom. The babies got trampled over by the bigger kids; the toys got fought over by the ones still not able to understand how to share. Only one small, uncherished item got broken, and the two bowls of food on the floor were quickly cleaned up by the collective parents.

It all was very unstructured as parties or events go, and between diaper changes and nap times, crying spells and tug of wars, we as the parents just helped, provided and attended to whichever kid needed it at the time. While I assisted my friend’s daughter with taking off her shoes, someone else held my baby. When my son wanted more ketchup while I was breastfeeding, a friend’s dad fetched it for him. Each parent took a turn with whichever youngster needed help, whether it was on the slide, in the water, getting juice or brushing off a scraped knee. It didn’t seem to matter whose child it was, just whoever was closest.

There was, however, a moment when all the toddlers were at the kid’s table and the babies on the laps of their mom’s and the food was dished out.  For what seemed like a few minutes we actually all got to enjoy our food before the milk spilled, the napkins became swooshy swords, the baby started crying and the phone began to ring.

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Until next time, standing on my soapbox,

JB

Studying costumes and costume design was one of my favorite things in school. For whatever reason, I loved the ornate and overly detailed fabrics of the years gone by. I was particularly enthralled with the 17th century, the French court and all that was Renaissance.

I adored the intricate floral prints, the ribbons, lace and overly grand ensembles that every lady wore. The stomacher, Watteau pleating, chemise and pannier hoops were just a few of the accomplices of that highly ostentatious era. Red heels, lace cuffs and a six inch ruff on the men made them no less the object of great finery. All was big, bold and overly impressive.

What I did find odd though was how the children were dressed as miniature copies of their parent’s attire right down to the brass buttons, lace pinafores and diamond buckles. It seemed a bit odd to me at the time how anyone would think a child, barely walking, would enjoy the layers upon layers of court dress, not to mention the opulence, constriction and weight that accompanied such elaborate outfits.

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June 5th, 2008

The recent warm weather and burst of spring showers had prompted my son into a desire for puddle jumping. Of course, the rubber boots he donned last year were far from fitting onto his now three-year-old toes, so off to the store we went to get a new pair.

Not thinking and trying to multi-task, Dad came along and so did little sister. With the plan to get groceries, a baby shower gift and a new pair of boots, we had to visit three different stores. Food was first, as it keeps the toddler snacking and amused, and Dad likes the illusion of getting things done as he fills the cart and checks items off his invisible list.

With our double stroller holding our coats, diaper bag, water bottles, wet wipes, rattle for the little one and new Dora video for the bigger one, Dad and I had to meander as best we could onto our next errand. Of course, he has the cart with all of the food, 25 rolls of toilet paper, Kleenex boxes, bleach, diapers and even more wipes, so we proceeded like a convoy.

I knew exactly what I was getting for a gift, so Dad stood outside with the crew as I zoomed in to quickly check off another thing on my list. Of course, the store was busy and the sales girls did not really notice as I stood patiently (yet impatiently) waiting to pay. Finally, I asked for help as I heard my baby start to fuss. Dad is never good with the fussing, he usually lets it go for too long and it passes the point where you can amuse her again.

I paid as fast as I could, glancing back at my husband and son eating Japanese oranges, my husband oblivious to the fusses as my son flicks stringy bits of orange at his sister.

With two errands down and one to go, I amused the baby with a granola wrapper crinkling in her hands, then made the dreaded mistake of removing my son from the stroller as we took over the small space in the shoe store.

On the shelf I saw a perfect pair of navy blue rubber boots. Dad had his cell in his ear as I looked for my son’s size and told him to remove his old shoes. The two seconds when I had my back turned resulted in my son running to a different shelf and, with the thrill only a three your old can exude, he shouted, uninhibited, “Mom, I want these ones!”

Happily, I turned to see him holding a lovely pair of Dora the Explorer rubber boots, all in pink with lavender soles. A moment passed before I could respond, while he kicked off his shoes and wiggled into the boots.

Now I know that his attraction is to Dora, the famous cartoon character every kids loves, and these boots represent adventure, friendship and exploring. But the boots just happened to be flamingo pink. I immediately and without thinking pointed to the Diego boots (denim blue and orange)–they are more masculine, of course.

“No, these one Mommy,” he insisted, as he stood to

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Dress to Express : Dressing Your Kids

After working in the wardrobe department in the film industry for over twelve years, I know a thing or two about fashion. One of my many jobs involved the demanding and hectic process of buying the perfect outfit for the top celebrities.

When I say perfect, I mean perfect—that authentic red 1950s dress that the director had his heart set on seeing, or that simple white t-shirt that’s actually far from simple!

I remember having 3 dozen cardigans to show Sally Fields. Jessica Alba was fanatic about her underwear, and I won’t mention any names, but I had to alter the butt of a leading man’s Boss jeans three times before he was happy. I have walked down the mall with Arnold Schwarzenegger, sat on curb talking fashion with David Bowie and even help put Will Farrell into an elf suit. All moments to remember and all dictated by fashion.

Many people who have never worked in film often ask what it’s like to dress such important people. I often say it is similar to dressing my three year old. They know what they like and know what they want!

For almost two years, I was blissfully going about sporting my son in the cutest and trendiest of boys wear. Many of his scrapbook pictures have him in a vest, button up shirt and even a bow tie. I often enjoyed the attention he would receive from strangers who admired his clothes and thought he looked just so cute…

…until he woke up one day and had a fashion mind of his own. Suddenly I’m at work all over again, trying to reason with someone who argues, screams and throws their clothes on the floor. Like starlets in the past, I have to negotiate, coerce, and try to convince him of what to wear.

Don’t get me wrong! I love that my son has awaken to the eccentricities of fashion. He has his favorites, like the shirt that has to be washed every second day so he can wear it all the time. We went through the one t-shirt that did not come off for three days in row. He tells his friends about his favorite “jaguar” shirt, no different from the name-dropping you would hear in any make-up trailer on set. Speed McQueen, Diego and Scooby Do are his version of Prada, Vuitton and Max Mara. They all mean something, and somehow make him feel better.

Anything new needs to be introduced slowly. It sits in his closet for a while; he needs to get to know it, trust it and when one coveted favorite reaches that point where the sleeves are to short or the neck starts to fray, a new one, if lucky, might be chosen. Leaving his black rain jacket at Gramma’s has resulted in driving across town to retrieve it—no different than when Kyle McLachlan left his leather jacket in his hotel room and a team of union drivers had to go to pick it up.

I started taking my son to the mall (something we desperately try to avoid with the cast) so he could pick out what he would like. Most of my choices are rejected or outgrown by the time he’s decided to wear them. Once he has it in his mind he wants to wear something, I know no amount of showing him something else will change it. Kinda like when Lindsay Wagner arrived from LA and, although we showed her over two hundred different items, she went for something she fished out of her suitcase.

So why do we become so attached to our clothes? At three, it seems unlikely that it is taught behavior. Trying to explain that the navy blue alphabet shirt clashes with the red-and-grey Nike shorts seems far beyond his comprehension. Yet sometimes I see his glance in the mirror and his confidence grows when he dons his “race cars” shirt. Is it any different from my favorite Gucci boots or cashmere sweater?

Regardless of age or gender, what we wear express how we feel. My son loves red; his best friend can’t live without pink. No one told them or showed them that what you wear can make you feel good. The only conclusion I can come up with is that it must be encoded somehow, regardless of environment or influence. Growing up in a town of fifty thousand didn’t stop me from dyeing my hair purple or wearing blue lipstick and handcuffs on my belt.

When it comes to fashion, I’m no longer interested in the price tag or gold logo. How do I feel wearing it? What sort of smile, smirk or twinkle in my eye does it create?

When it come to kid’s fashion, it’s even more important. Do they laugh, play and feel free to express themselves? Are their clothes an extension of who they are? Do they enable and create the confidence to be who they want to be and allow them to joyfully present themselves to the world?

I know in my heart that if I stand back and watch my son, he shows me every single time just who he is. When I try to make him look or appear a certain way outside of his character, I always have a battle on my hands. Allowing him to choose what he wears empowers his spirit and increases his self worth. He, in is own little three year old way, is making a choice to be the person that he feels he is, and his clothes are a beautiful and effortless extension of that.

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