R.I.P. Mother-Daughter Dresses

My mother once told me that "bad news comes in threes." 

This is certainly not her invention, but rather a common superstition. I don't know why the number three figures so prominently. (The three kings? The father, son and the holy ghost? Goldilocks and the three bears? Or is three just a random number, representing the random universe, over which we have — let's face it — very little control.) Regardless, the law of three remains a folkish given, as common on newscasts as it is at the water cooler.

So, when there are two high-profile celebrity deaths, we all wait for the third. Then, we can relax. Until the next round of three, I suppose.

So, here are three seemingly unrelated but recent demises that are resonating with me today.

Roger Ebert, extraordinary author and cultural commentator, philosopher, lifelong learner, liberal and lover. Always a favorite of mine and an inspiration to me as a writer myself. Rest in peace, Roger.

Margaret Thatcher, a feminist before her time. Thatcher, interestingly enough, was such a conservative that many liberals, for whom she was breaking enormous ground by serving in Parliament first and then as Prime Minister, abhorred her. Interesting contradiction. Incredible trailblazer. Rest in peace, Margaret.

And, now, last, possibly least, but hopefully rounding out our threesome for a little while, Lilly Pulitzer.

I do not now and never have owned a Lilly Pulitzer frock. But, in my adopted seacoast town, they are all the rage, all around me, all the time. At the risk of sounding bourgeois, we are members of a yacht club (and no, we do not have a yacht). At Sunday brunches in the summer, the dining room is full of happy, invariably blond, families. Mothers in cheerful Pulitzer prints and little girls in identical cheerful Pulitzer prints. 

A New Yorker at heart, despite my current address, I tend to wear black, black, and ... well ... black. No pastel florals for me, merci mille fois. The first time we took another couple to our club after my daughter was born, I turned to my friend (an art director and probably the most stylish woman I know, who, BTW, was also in black) and whispered, "The day you see us in those matching dresses is the day you shoot me." She solemnly agreed.

My daughter and I did, for a brief period, have matching pajamas. They were "Nick and Nora," a label made famous in an early episode of Ally McBeal. (Remember that show? "Bygones." The "unisex." The dancing baby.) They were flannel and covered with illustrations of sock monkeys; I have a couple of pictures of us together in them from a weekend in Vermont.

We also had matching embroidered Chinese jackets at one point. We wore them at a big family Christmas party. I paired mine with black silk trousers. My daughter wore velvet leggings over her diaper. And if that doesn't date it, nothing will.

Since then, we have gone our own ways. My style is pretty consistent; I've had the same short haircut for decades and still gravitate toward Asian tops and loads of funky jewelry. My now teenage daughter on the other hand goes in and out of fashion phases at a head-spinning rate. Her major influences are Urban Outfitters, her high school peers, and the gospel according to Seventeen. These days, when she isn't in riding breeches and boots, she tends to be poured into skinny jeans with a loose colorful top and a scarf.

This is precisely what I agreed to her wearing yesterday for a family trip into Boston and a show. I still believe in dressing up for the theatre, but suggesting a skirt would be a big waste of my limited time. I settled for stylish casual, which my trim fifteen year old can certainly pull off. She came downstairs in a crisp blue collared blouse with a contrasting blue pashmina (the ones you get for $10 at a cart in the mall, not $200 at a counter at Saks). "You look great!" my husband and I both told her.

"I don't like the blue with the other blue," she moaned at us.

"But, you look great," we repeated. "Really."

"Arrrrgh!" she exclaimed and raced back upstairs, stripping off the freshly-ironed shirt on her way. I followed, stopping in my closet to grab a couple of options. We were already late.

She ended up with the same top but one of my scarves, a funky woven one that I had bought in a shop across from the Tuileries garden when we went to Paris last summer. I was doubly happy. We were leaving and she looked terrific. Maybe I was triply happy. You see, in choosing one of my accessories, she had unwittingly bestowed a rare teen seal of approval. 

This made me reconsider my earlier aversion.

Lilly Pulitzer was not only the mother of mother-daughter dresses, she was the mother of invention. The socialite began her famous preppy line when she asked her seamstress to create some outfits she could wear while selling produce from her husband's citrus groves. The floral fabric effectively hid the juice stains. And as we all know, the dresses soon took on a very colorful life of their own. “I designed collections around whatever struck my fancy ... fruits, vegetables, politics or peacocks ... but it made people happy.” I guess as far as corporate missions are concerned, that's a pretty good one.

So, rest in peace, Lilly. I mean it. 

Because, despite my sniping about those ubiquitous sundresses, there is something really happy about the phrase, "Like mother, like daughter." 

Like Daughter Like Mother?

When I had my daughter in 1997, I asked all the cool artsy urban friends I had collected over the years to help me stay cool and artsy and urban. I was thrilled to be a mother but a little afraid that I would suddenly become a stereotype. Y'know, a modern-day Stepford wife.

"Please," I urged them, "If you ever catch us in mother-daughter Lilly Pulitzer dresses, stage an intervention."

There was no reason to fear. Short of one matching pajama set (extremely cute flannel Nick and Nora pj's with sock monkeys on them), my daughter and I have never been interested in looking like two peas in a pod. She wears orange or lime green or bright red. I wear black or black or black (hey, I'm from New York). She wears tight jeggings or jodhpurs. I wear flowing yoga pants. She wears bikinis. I wear one-pieces. When it comes to our taste in clothes (like our taste in radio stations, snack foods, and popular fiction), I'm happy to report that the generation gap remains unbridged.

It doesn't bother me that my daughter is uninterested in emulating my style. (Most likely, if you asked her, she would roll her eyes as if to say, "What style?") And, I am certainly not trying to look her age. Sure, I would love to be thinner and younger; I would love to wear skinny jeans. But, they would be my skinny jeans, not hers. There's a good reason why the company NYDJ, "Not Your Daughter's Jeans," can charge over $100 a pair. Those of us who are no longer 20 (or 30 or even 40) are built differently.

My daughter and her friends are devoted to the latest trend. It's not so much that they want to be individuals yet; they actually want to look exactly alike. But, they definitely don't want to look like their dear old moms. This was recently reinforced in a study released by Temple University's Fox School of Business. Researchers surveyed 343 mother-daughter pairs. The average mother was 44; the average daughter 16. (This makes the average mother a little younger than yours truly, and the average daughter a little older than mine.)

The study indicated that when it comes to fashion, daughters were not influenced by the mothers. (Duh.) But a surprising number of mothers were influenced by their daughters. They termed these moms, "consumer doppelgängers." These women look to their teens for guidance on the latest styles and make-up. As the study's author Ayalla Ruvio explains, "Mimicking her daughter is like a shortcut to what is hip and cool."

Uh-oh. Now I guess I know why I'm not hip and cool — I have lots of issues with my daughter's choice of clothing. These should sound familiar to many moms. Low-cut jeans are cut too low. Short shorts are just too short. Bra straps belong inside not outside. Flip-flops do not a pair of party shoes make. But, generally speaking, my daughter is presentable if not downright cute when left to her own devices.

That said, even if I could fit into her Hollisters, I wouldn't want to. (If I could fit into Heidi Klum's mom jeans? Now, that's another story.)

When we go to the mall together (and these trips have increased along with my offspring's awareness of the benefits of retail therapy), we hit all the teen hot spots: Forever 21, Abercrombie, Hollister, American Eagle. But, the only person walking out with a purchase is my daughter. In exchange, I get a few minutes at Chico's, Talbots and J. Jill. More my size, my colors, my style (for what that's worth). I consider this a win-win. Trying to squish my 49-year old thighs into "Super Distressed Super Skinny Jeans" designed for someone who hasn't hit puberty yet? I think I'll pass.

And, that's okay with my daughter too. While the girls surveyed in the Temple study were proud if their mothers look attractive and stylish, it's embarrassing if the moms are obviously trying to look younger. So, there's no need for me to try and dress any age other than my own.

I embarrass my daughter enough without trying.

For another perspective on the Temple University study, read Dr. Ford's essay in Women's Voices for Change.