Darth Mother

In trying to find some bright spot, some silver lining to the waaaaaaay long Jersey winter this year, I wracked my brains for some saving grace to all these layers and the fact that on April 1st, I'm still wearing gloves. And then it struck me... the gloves. the leather.

I've seized upon the intimidating yet polished look presented by swaggering winter coat and high black leather boots. This may seem an odd choice, like a bit of a stretch. Perhaps. But it's the effect this ensemble has upon young children with which I am most enamored. You see I am sure that each edict I issue to the adolescent Son1&2 is made all the more resonant by the fact that I resemble Lord Vader in all his boot wearing, cape tossing, asthmatic-sounding (it's allergy season) glory. The message is perfectly clear: Don't mess with me.  I'll kick your ass and squeeze the force right outta ya.

"I SAID: BRUSH ---YOUR----TEETH!" Squeeze leather clad fist around Colgate tube. Cue dramatic, coat swinging turn.  And then this plays in the background. By the 27th "brush your teeth" I probably look more like the Emperor actually.

While I adore a good peep toe as much as the next girl, you don't get this sort of gravitas in a sundress.

Yes, you can look authoritative and grab attention in lighter weight clothes, but the houndstooth, chalk stripe and deep jewel tones of winter-wear really do beg to be taken more seriously than, say, polka dots or lavender. You didn't see Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada oozing ice from her veins while sporting a baby pink cardi. She played the cold weather-wear card for a uniform befitting the tyrant she was. And that's what we all are, frankly, in our kids eyes: tyrants. Our kids are not members of a democracy. While I strive for "benevolent dictator," I know they see our house as a fascist regime escaped only by college, boarding school, or a week alone with Daddy.

This Winter has been exceptionally insane in duration, so I've gotten my fair share of DarthMother moments. I am ready to pack away the long coats and give the boots a rest for the next, say, 4-72 months. Maybe before I do, I'll relish one last menacing directive in "uniform."

The week has come to end, but yet another email has been received by a Son1 teacher. And it's not a love note or request for guest blogging. Mommy's not happy. She is, in fact, on the war path. (So much so she's speaking of "her"self in third person?)

I must go make my entrance, convey the sentencing, and take my dramatic coat/cape swinging leave, leather-clad boots stomping in my retreat. Cue the music, DJSon1, and kiss your PSP goodbye for a few days: