When I was three, she allowed me wear nothing but dresses, adhering to my strict "no pants" rule.
When I was nine, she met my "constant stir-up pants demand", sewing up a good dozen or so to keep me happy (and fashionable, obviously).
When I was fifteen, she allowed me to wear a skin tight, shiny silver plastic-y star trek dress to a countryside wedding simply because that's what I wanted to wear. (note: I'm still embarrassed when she pulls out this dress.)
When I was a senior in high school, she didn't say anything when I wore black platform leather shoes, covered in red and orange flames. To the homecoming rally. Where I was crowned homecoming queen. No, I wasn't a cheerleader. Not even close.
When I was in college, she seemed to understand my desire to wear nothing but pajama pants. All the time. Baggy, comfortable pajama pants.
And now, she encourages me digging through my grandma's closet, wearing polyester and experimenting with broaches.
We get a lot of things from our mothers -- for me, that includes a very flat rear end, the habit of eating half of the piece of cake and leaving the other half for later* (*later = 10 minutes later), and a love for white wine spritzers.
If we're lucky, we can also get a sense of style from our moms.
But - if we're even luckier - we get what matters even more: the encouragement and unconditional support to always be ourselves - no matter how different that may make us from everybody else -- and no matter how embarrassing the pictures may be fifteen years later.
Happy Mother's Day.
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