Do you know how hard it is to take drywall plaster off school uniform pants?
Let me start at the beginning. It was a bright and shiny August day and the good people at Old Navy sent me an email to remind me to put in an order for school uniform clothes. They even offered me a nice-sounding discount and waived the shipping charge. So I poured myself a beer, got out my trusty, old credit card, and dove in.
My son wears the same thing to school, day in and day out. A navy blue polo shirt and navy blue pants. I keep his drawer stocked with these and getting dressed is a breeze. My oldest daughter, on the other hand, likes to make things difficult. This dress, but these leggings and not those tights and this sweater, but not that one and whatareyoutalkingabout, those pants are BOYSIE. I WON’T WEAR BOYSIE CLOTHES. You can imagine all the boys’ clothes, like pants, that I was trying to foist upon her.
But I could dream, couldn’t I? So when I saw the slim-fitting, girls navy blue school pants, I imagined a winter where two of my children could pull out the same pair of school pants and shirt everyday and all I would have to do is wave them off in the morning.* It didn’t matter that those slim-fitting pants were almost twice as much as the marked-down boot cut style we had last year. Hell, they could have been three times as much. I was drunk on the fantasy of easy mornings and I was going to have those pants.
So I ordered one pair because I am also not a complete fool and I know my daughter.
And you’ll never guess. Yes, she refused to wear them. Every couple months I’d pull them out and it would trigger insta-hysterics. “I HATE THOSE PANTS!” “But did you see-” “THOSE ARE BIG, FAT, UGLY PANTS!” “They say right here, sli-” “I WON’T WEAR THEM! I WON’T! NO, NO, NO, NEVER!!!!” Until I just slide them back into the drawer and grasp around trying to figure out an acceptable combination of leggings/skirts/t-shirts/sweaters that would both keep to the dress code and keep her warm.
That is, until yesterday.
Yesterday all the pieces finally fell together. My daughter looked at the pants I laid out, shrugged, and said, “Alright, I’ll try them.” The heavens parted, a chorus of angels sang, and the morning was lit with a warm, golden glow.
She came down for breakfast and said, “I think I like these. They’re the same ones M— wears.” I kissed all my children and waved them off .*
I passed the next several hours in tranquil bliss, the bane of my existence having been lifted.
One by one, the kids clambered off the school bus that afternoon and greeted me with their own peculiar expressions of love, respect, and gratitude.
“I’m hungry!” “Here. Hold my backpack.” “Why did you give me tuna? I told you I don’t like tuna.”
Aw, such sweeties. It was good to have them back.
Then, on the walk home, my daughter excitedly told me about the art project she worked on for much of the day. They were building a structure or something … I’m not exactly sure because when I stepped back to admire how smart she looked in her coat, boots, and slim-fitting school pants, I was distracted by several bright white stains that dripped down an entire leg.
“What’s on your pants?”
“Oh, mom. I’m sorry. I tried so hard to be careful because we were told it wouldn’t wash off. It’s drywall? Something? And I didn’t get any on my shirt!”
The sky darkened; the angels packed up their harps and slammed their bedroom doors.
“What? What! WHAT?! Drywall plaster? You were using drywall plaster at school on the ONE DAY you finally decided to wear those BRAND NEW pants?”
And then I really lost it.
“I can’t believe they would give that to you. They make you wear a freaking school uniform! THEY KNEW IT WOULDN’T WASH OFF. I could have sent extra clothes. God, any other day and you’d be wearing worn out leggings anyway. AAAAHHH!!”
My poor little girl looked so sad. Crap. It wasn’t her fault.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault. It’s only pants. It’s just that they were basically BRAND NEW. And I can’t BELIEVE …”
And I was off again, riding a seesaw of rage and remorse, vacillating between how I felt and how I wanted to feel. Because I’m not the mom who cares if the kids’ clothes get dirty or stained or worn out or torn. I’m not! Any other pants, I swear, would have been no big deal. And I love that her teacher embraces all kinds of crazy art projects and engages them in ways that no other teacher does. I KNOW that is way more valuable in the long run than a teacher who is worried about staining their clothes.
But those pants!
So I googled, and I soaked, and I took a plastic knife, a plastic scouring brush, a toothpick and my fingernails to task. I was actually able to scrape off almost all of the plaster. The only stain that remains is a whiteish smear right above the knee where she had rubbed the plaster deeper into the fabric in an effort to wipe it off herself at school.
It looks like she spilled some yogurt on her pants at breakfast and then I hastily wiped it up with a paper towel on the way out the door. You know, hypothetically. And, well, that’s going to have to be good enough.
Because, by god, those yogurt pants are getting worn again.
* By “wave them off in the morning,” I do mean make them breakfast, frantically scavenge for lunches, break open piggy banks for bake sale money, search for lost library books, sign permission forms a week late, wrestle them into snow pants, scream about lost mittens, and then haul ass to the school bus stop, of course.