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How to dress your children funny: Christmas 1973 edition

It seems to have escaped my mother's attention that my sister and I are not twins.  I shudder at the thought of the abominations we would have been forced to wear had we been.

I would also like to challenge her on the whole hairband versus ribbons issue. Obviously I am scowling because my sister is rocking the hairband with her hair out while I have mine in pigtails and ribbons. I am so pissed. Wearing our hair out was like totally rad. And mostly forbidden.  It is so. not. fair. that she was allowed all that hair freedom, and I was denied it. This clearly was a precursor to the 1976 Christmas debacle when she got an ABBA t-shirt and do you know what I got? I bet you cannot even guess what I got.

I got a Wombles t-shirt.

No, sorry. I can't talk about it. I thought I could but I can't.

Back to 1973.  I also take issue with the fact that my sister's dress is both pink AND bedecked with flowers. The rule is that if you get pink, then you also get the ugly pattern. It's what god intended. But nooooo. Not in 1973. Not only did I get a white and red dress (FYI Mum. Red and white? So not a susbstitute for pink, just so you know) it had, I don't even know wtf that is on that dress. Space ships? I fucking hope not.  Fruit? Maybe. Yeah, possibly fruit. Better than space ships but it still doesn't have the same cachet as flowers does it? For the record, if it's not flowers on your dress, it bloody better be hearts.

In light of this, do I even need to address the doll* issue? She gets the HAIRBAND (PINK!), the PINK dress with the FLOWERS, and the doll with the PINK dress? Did you really hate me that much, MOTHER?

I take some solace in the fact that my brother did not remain unscathed. Buttoned up to the neck = so cool, sucka. Also, floral fitted shorts? Niiiice. But don't be fooled by that smile. He would have been crying on the inside and I can almost guarantee that right after this picture was taken he punched me to let off a little steam.

*I rolled that doll down a grass bank and her eyes fell out. It taught me a valuable lesson, and to this day, I have not rolled any live babies down grass banks.

How to dress your children funny. Part I of an occasional series.

Courtesy of my mother. 

Circa 1971.  

Woah. Too many things deserving attention here. But let's start with the pants.

This was back in the day when we used to call long pants "longs".  But wait, were these long pants? Were they long shorts or short longs? I can't decide.  On the one hand, the knees are sufficiently worn to suggest that they had been a feature of our wardrobes for a considerable length of time. On the other hand, Mum used to make our clothes so it's not like a couple of new pairs were out of the question, fiscally speaking.

Next up: the hair.  I like the way that my hair is parted on the left and my sister's on the right. If I recall correctly, and I think I do because trauma like this stays with you forever, my hair tie was a yellow flower with a red centre and hers was a red flower with a yellow centre.  My mother was all about the symmetry.  But! We just go and fuck that right up by both wearing our handbags on the same shoulders. Way to ruin the mirror image guys.

And then there are the jerseys. The picture does not do the colour of these jerseys full justice. The photo has faded afer many years of being stuck on the wall as a reminder to myself and my daughters that family don't let family dress like twats.  The jerseys are green. But not really, because they're sort of blue as well.  No, not aqua. Not sea-green. Not aquamarine. Not cyan. Not teal.  More like, how shall I put it....algae? Pond-scum. Toxic bloom nicely set off by the white skivvies underneath.

Next up, the shoes.  Firstly, it would appear that we only had one pair of shoes each back in the day, since we are wearing our school shoes sans uniform.  Secondly, something has obviously gone badly wrong (did someone die? get arrested?) since we used to polish those shoes every Sunday night WITHOUT FAIL and yet, here we are in all our scuffed glory.  This picture is just not adding up. 

Aaaand then we have the socks. The final chapter in the whole sorry saga.  Those white beacons of hopelessness, on a trip north chasing the sisterhood of the traveling pants.

Well played Mum, well played.