Buster & Lucille

Since his entrance into this world, Eli has been acutely aware of his raiment. He cried all the way home from the hospital and I have since decided that it was because he did not care for the particular color of his receiving blanket. As soon as he was physically able, he began to dress himself and his primary language skills were honed as he artfully described what he would and would not wear. For example, last spring I pulled out a pair of brightly colored short pants. Eli took one look at them and said, "No thanks. Those look like a clown." I looked at the shorts again, and realized, he was absolutely correct. (Yet, to my recollection, he has never actually seen a clown.)

Well, Eli's fastidious attitude took a hilarious turn this last summer. One morning he decided, from that day forth, he would dress like me. And so he would wait until I dressed for the day and then he would go through his drawers to find a matching outfit. If I wore jeans, he wore jeans; when I wore cargo pants, he wore cargo pants. White shirt-white shirt, running shoes-running shoes, belt-belt. Color, pockets, buttons and length had to be the same. (I should mention how shocked I was to discover the similarities in our wardrobe. My entire collection consists of various shades of blue, white, gray, tan, and brown. It was frighteningly easy for Eli to "match" me 99% of the time.) Eventually Eli was calling out to me from his bedroom, "Are we wearing blue shorts?" and "Are we wearing our sandals today?" On the rare occasion I had to dress like a woman (rare, indeed!), Eli would sob and beg me to change into something he could match. The hardest day of the week, apparel-wise, was Sunday. For three or four weeks in a row, Eli pleaded with me not to wear a skirt but instead to wear brown pants like him. Those Sundays we left for church with poor Eli sulking in the back seat. He acted as though I had broken some filial pact and betrayed our beautiful dress-code. And so, you can only imagine his delight when last Sunday I pulled out a sweater that is merely a blacker, larger version of one of his church sweaters. He sang songs all the way to church and proudly sat on my lap the entire meeting. 'Tis indeed a magical time of year when even on Sunday we get to "match."