We bantered for a bit when I pointed out that my whole house actually was full of pattern. Animal prints and florals, stripes, color, polka dots, prints of all kinds. To my mind, it all comes together, linked by traces of color, texture, size, and dimension. I like this crazy world at home and am comforted by its controlled chaos. It's not haphazard or random. This madness is perfectly curated. Nothing gets in here by accident. There is a level of whimsy and sophistication and lots of energy and fun, with lots of room to lounge, move, create, eat, and live. It suits us.
When I go out into the world my spacesuit is usually grey, black, or navy, or some combination of these three. But when I am home, I want to see tiny explosions, mismatched pattern, contrasting colors, light and dark, hard lines and snuggly pillows and blankets. Our space is full of the creative life force that each of us brings. There is art made by all four of us hung and displayed. There are favorite motifs--crowns, cats, hearts, mandalas, mothers and children, flowers and trees, abstract paintings, woven tapestries, and my favorite, black and white something-or-others everywhere.
I have read articles about the "daily uniforms" that many professional women have adopted so that they can focus on the work in front of them. A white button down and black pants. A black tank and grey yoga leggings. Black blazer. I lean more towards a sporty comfort, dance clothes with scarves and oversized everything. Long ago, before the elegant French husband and the children who have to be picked up at school and not humiliated by their mother's eccentric tastes, I would have worn my love of color and pattern and texture all over my body. No Beige City for me. There were faux fur leaning towards teddy bear coats, big shoes, colorful eye shadows, fringe, jewelry, monocles, canes, and glasses of all sorts. Bare bellies, naked shoulders, tiny skirts in plastic or leather or mesh.
I took off my earrings once the first baby arrived because it was her life goal, it seemed, to slice my earlobe with her pulling. When we returned to the States from Barbados, I cut my hair ever shorter and felt too art-teachery, Eileen Fisher in earrings. I started the lean towards a more androgynous, exaggerated proportion after a super-sexy period in Barbados where our house was not our own and the decor most definitely was not. As my uniform went back to black, our space exploded with color and personality, expression shared in our private sanctuary and not out in the world. Like our purest feelings, our life force was tucked away into the safety of our home.
When we come in and kick off our shoes, steal away to a favorite corner or spot, the place pulsates and radiates our energy. It's for us. Our space. We peel off our masks and space suits and settle into its patterned, dynamic peace. It's warm, welcoming, comfortable, and safe. And it's just as much fun as I used to be on the outside, I told my kids.
And their reply, "You are still the most fun, mommy."
(c) 2016. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
