The Matchy

When I was a teenager, my mother had a habit of waking me up on Sunday mornings by asking what I was wearing to church. “Ummm, probably my pink Laura Ashley dress,” I’d say groggily. Mom would flit off somewhere and I’d rub my eyes and stumble into the shower, emerging fully dressed from my room an hour later to find her wearing a pink outfit that perfectly coordinated with mine.

“Mom!” I’d say incredulously. “You’re matching me. You did that on purpose!”

“Did what?” Mom asked innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She did, though. My mother has always been obsessed with dressing alike, from when I was a child, to my teenage years, to … now.

“Look what I got for Punky,” my mom said yesterday after we’d arrived at my parents’ house for a visit. She was brandishing an armload of boutique children’s clothes. Proudly, she laid them out in front of me and I murmured my admiration. She had, indeed, outdone herself. Mom had coordinated Bruiser’s pastel polo shirts and khaki shorts with Punky’s flowered dresses. Better yet, each one of Punky’s dresses came with a matching dress for a doll mom had bought that looked just like my daughter. It was awesome—at least until Mom turned to me.

“I bought a few things for you, too,” she said excitedly. She held up a few tops and a dress and at first, I was thrilled, but then she said something that made every one of my dress-alike memories come flooding back.

“I want Punky to wear the blue dress to Dad’s office tomorrow,” Mom began, “and I want Bruiser to wear the blue polo, and I want you to wear this blue shirt.”

Oh. My. God. The Matchiness.

My voice said, “Okay,” but my tone said, “Hell, no.” When I told Hubs afterward, though, he didn’t show much sympathy for my plight.

“Oh, just do it,” he said. “Do it for your mom. It’ll make her happy.”

He was right. What did I care if everyone at my father’s practice thought I was one of those mothers who dress like their kids and wear their hair in a poufy Mom-Bob and carry Junior League lifetime membership cards in their wallets? It would make my mom happy.

And so this morning, Punky, Bruiser and I emerged from my room one big, matchy-matchy family. And to be honest, when my mom turned to greet me in the kitchen, I really shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Well, hi!” she exclaimed, with a brilliant smile on her face. She was wearing a matching blue shirt. I swear to God.

I inhaled. I exhaled. And then I smiled. Because, you know, if this is the extent of my family’s dysfunction right now?

I’ll take it.