MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Relief from the uniform dilemma School is out for the year, and the requisite changes will take place. We can relax in the morning, not having to worry about having to be anyplace we don’t want to be, and too early at that. But for me, the most significant change will occur in the laundry room. It won’t be necessary any longer to strip the children upon entering the house, so I can wash their one uniform for the next day. Each year the growth cycle seems to conclude about a month before the end of school. The children start to complain about the clothes fitting too tight. Girls are better whiners, so my daughter shamed me into buying her another skirt just recently. And the unfortunate laundry accident which resulted in pink shirts previously, forced me to restock her shirt supply not long before then. But my poor son has been holding his breath as he buttons his shorts, for a few weeks now. He has only one remaining pair of shorts whose buttoning doesn’t constitute child abuse, and the school insignia is long gone from any of his shirts. I was feeling a little guilty until we joined some friends after school one day, and the boys changed clothes. One of the mothers pounced on her son’s shorts with a fervor that was scary. She held them tightly under her armpit until she was certain they were safe. “His only remaining pair,” was her breathless reply to our amused looks. Another mom spoke up. “You should see my son’s socks. I used to be embarrassed to send him to school wearing them, just in case anyone saw him, but now I don’t care. A pair of socks lasts only about a week around my house because he wears them like shoes, so his last few pairs of socks are being held together by threads. He’ll finish out the school year in them anyway.” This made me feel a little better about my children’s sock drawers. My daughter does not have a single pair of socks which match in any other way but the stains on the heel. Each morning I hear a litany about socks as they spill out over the floor. I do feel slightly guilty when she leaves with two socks, which are different heights. What she lacks in quality is made up in quantity. My son’s sock drawer offers neither quality nor quantity. Buried beneath the regular stained stash are a few pink ones, from the same laundry accident that claimed my daughter’s shirts. Fortunately, he’s never been desperate enough to wear them, and they make nice padding, filling out the drawer so it looks like he has more. It’s my son’s shoes that could trump even the saddest display of uniform fatigue. They are literally shredding. The top layer of vinyl has peeled away, revealing some gray tinted man-made material. Even my son has rejected them, and he has never been recognized for pride in his appearance. I was afraid I would be hearing from the office about his substitute shoes, but we managed to hang below the radar long enough to finish the year. These shoes beat my daughter’s end-of-the-year look from last year, where the upper separated from the sole at the toes. This Appalachia style gave her toes the breathing room they needed, keeping me from having to spring for a new pair of $40 oxfords with three weeks remaining. I usually break down when actual pain is involved. But some moms can be tough. A friend of my daughter’s whined a little each time she had to put on her school shoes. The child’s mother applied a little spin. “Oh, honey, it’s just morning feet. They’re a little stiff until you move around.” I reminded this woman her daughter was a little young for arthritis. She was unmoved, until the child actually started crying every time she ran to the bus. When Mom checked the shoes and realized she might actually develop arthritis from wearing those shoes, they made the trip to the store. After thinking about how difficult these last weeks of school are, there is really only one solution. We need to shorten the school year. Only the retailers would object. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.