Family Daze: Dressed to Spill

The only time I am thoroughly clean, since having children, is on my way from the shower to the bathroom door. In spite of taking numerous precautions, I end up with whatever my children eat, touch, or sneeze stuck somewhere on my body.

I decided to save on my laundry bill shortly after my first child was born by exchanging my silk designer clothes for washable cottons. When my daughter turned two, I exchanged solid colors for prints. After the birth of my second child, I considered not wearing anything at all and wrapping myself in a roll of paper towels.

Each day my outfit becomes a road map of our daily events. If my husband wants to know about my day, I just hold out my sleeve and point like a soldier reporting from battle.

"We ate scrambled eggs for breakfast, finger-painted, and went to the park where the Frisbee got stuck in a mud puddle the size of the La Brea Tar Pit." I say, gazing enviously at his starched, white shirt.

I often wonder if my children see me as a real person or a large, portable towel with feet. I remember, before having children, being impeccably dressed for work each morning and never using my blouse as a tissue, my scarf for first aid, or my jacket for home plate.

I wore nail polish to accessorize my outfit, not to cover green play dough stuck underneath my fingernails. My clothes were the same color in the evening as they were in the morning, instead of looking like I was caught in the crossfire of a preschool spin art project.

I spend my day in primary-colored trenches with two preschoolers armed with crayons, ink pens, and Silly Putty, so remaining clean after breakfast is impossible without wrapping my entire body in plastic wrap or locking myself in the bedroom closet.

When I realized I was seeing the washing machine more than my husband, I gave up trying to stay clean and began to think of my clothing as a convenient alternative to cameras and video recorders. Most family vacations are permanently recorded on my wardrobe. Our three-day trip

to Disneyland fills the entire right side of my closet.

"Don’t you think it’s time to bleach that?" my husband suggests, pointing to several spots on my shirt. "People are starting to stare."

"What? And erase the memories of the Grand Canyon?" I say. "Where the baby spit up three bottles of apple juice right before the donkey licked our daughter and I had to use my sleeve as a napkin?"

If I ever end up looking the same in the evening as I did in the morning it would mean I forgot to do something important like making mud pies, hammering on a loose training wheel with the garage door opener, or hugging my children. Even though I look like a mess at the end of the

day, I display myself proudly — because I consider every stain on my shirt a badge I’ve earned from my children.

Editor’s note: You can contact Debbie Farmer at: [email protected]