If the Sweater Fits, Wear It... in Quadruplicate

You may have noticed that Mikaela & Katrianna's clothes usually match. Always have. A combination of factors contributed: my overt nurturing of a 'subliminal' sisterly bond when Katrianna first joined our family, practicality at the playground so I could keep sight of them among fifty other kids, simplified shopping decisions at clothing stores (where my goal is to spend as little time as possible) and being "gifted" with plenty of matching outfits over the years.

Eventually, the girls accompanied us on shopping expeditions and they nearly always followed suit (or dress or t-shirt), picking exactly the same design, deviating only in hue if at all. It was mildly embarrassing when my daughters matched more often than the sets of twins we knew, but I consoled myself with the fact that they actively participated in their identity codependency.

However, let me preface this particular story by stating emphatically that the orange fleeces are not my fault. Chris and I had received the blindingly bright beauties from his mother one holiday and, later, two more arrived in children's sizes. (For the record, she denies culpability since she claims no memory of giving the original pair, which is entirely believable since we normally receive no less than six bags of new duds with each and every visit.) Just about to set off for an extended trip to Europe, we suddenly saw the virtues of adaptable, fluorescent fleeces and decided to take them along (as well as save a dreaded trip to the mall, proving procrastination wins again!).
   
In Europe, people just mistakenly assumed we were from the Netherlands, which wasn't all bad...  especially if we wanted to strike up a game of double Dutch or get beat up at a soccer match or break into spontaneous clogging ( I always wondered where you could shine with a hobby like that). But, when Mikaela left youth behind and crossed the double digits age threshold, she began to be uncomfortable with our tangerine accoutrement.
I mistook that for her wanting to be autonomous, express her individuality. Turned out, it was just that she didn't like the color or the constant observations from strangers who felt compelled to share their delightfully clever perceptions, such as "Whoa, all you guys are in orange?!" Or, at Home Depot, "Hey, all ya'll could work here - you're already in uniform!"

So, time passed slowly in the orange fleeces and Mikaela winced. A lot. To her relief, we finally had to retire our pullovers (give ourselves a fleecing) when the zippers had broken, most of the piping was dangling in shriveled loops, and the girls, whose wrists protruded noticeably, would no longer accept my explanation that it was fashionable to wear ¾ length sleeves. 

Faced with this major life transition, Katrianna declared "Let's find golden colored fleeces!" I admit, I didn't get it at first. She explained, "Then we can say we're all on a Quest of the Golden Fleeces!!" Presented with that sort of reasoning, I immediately took up the inspired cause and, like Jason & his Argonauts, we spent a few more weeks trying to fulfill the promise of a holy pun. But, by Jove, fate was against us and our noble efforts were for naught. There were no golden fleeces to be had in them there hills, sporting goods stores or numerous, treacherous shopping mauls.

Mikaela was going to get her wish at last and exercise her independence, strike out on her own, distance herself from her parents and younger sibling as all prideful and self-conscious tweens should.  After the humiliating, drawn out experience of matching the rest of us, she had complete freedom and could choose anything she wanted, any color, any style, just for her and her alone. Katrianna, at the tender age of 7, should do the same. It might not be verbatim, but I told them something along the lines of "Go forth, my daughters, and embrace this challenge so you emerge stronger and more self-assured." (Not exactly the Native American rite of passage involving dark woods and stalking prey, but close enough.)

We would find ourselves, along with our selves, at the SuperMall. (If I'd paid attention to Seventeen magazine as an adolescent, I would have known that all along.) We split up. Battling "my little babies are growing up" syndrome side effects, I left the girls to shop with Dad and went off to face the clothes racks alone.

Though still somewhat bereft at the loss of the golden fleeces Platonic ideal, I realized that I could now choose a jacket I actually liked. Orange was my husband's favorite color, not mine. Let the girls pick magenta or aquamarine or stripes or polka dots.  I could pick a lighter color, one that didn't so highlight my ever-expanding network of wrinkles...  In fact, I could totally drop the fleece idea and perhaps get a sweater. I could have a decidedly more mature, sophisticated look, and thereby accept my aging gracefully and stylishly. Wow, all of this profundity while wandering around in department stores! I'd always hated shopping, especially for clothes, but even I could see it was a significant and necessary psychological step for the girls, as well as for me and Chris. I made my selection and returned to meet the family.

When we reunited, their excited exclamations confirmed my resolve that we were doing the right thing. Until M&K slowed down long enough for me to understand that they'd in fact picked out matching tops. I sternly looked at their father, shaking my head that he hadn't let them decide for themselves. But, they protested, they loved them and they wanted to match again!  I explained all the reasons why this was a bad idea, referring to Mikaela's growing complaints and developing sense of self. For both of them, I repeated, it's healthy, perfectly normal and inevitable to want to be different. They countered that they had always chosen matching clothes before and that they had feigned dislike of the attention it incurred. They kept hugging each other, seemed ridiculously sincere and happy and, besides, we were causing a scene which was what I'd thought we were trying to avoid in the first place... 

I relented and they jumped around discussing the merits of their choices.  Then, all at once, the girls reached into their bag and I into mine to show off our new & improved assertions of divergent self-expression:

I'm still trying to adjust to the radical change and distancing this has created in our mother-daughter relationships. 

In my defense, I immediately suggested I return my sweater and pick something else, but the kids talked me out of it. Chris, an incurable sap who never saw the problem with orange fleeces in the first place, was elated. He ran to the men's section to find a male version of a matching cream sweater.