My high school freshman came to me the other night asking for help for homecoming week. They were having a “Pacific Northwest” day, and she desperately needed a flannel to wear the next day. DESPERATELY. The clock told me that the mall was closed, and my impatience with her lack of planning told me that even if it wasn’t, I didn’t care.
Not being the most nurturing or sentimental mother in the world, you might be surprised, though, that I had a solution for her: My childhood flannel shirt. I’m not sure where it started out, but like most of my clothing it was a hand-me-down from at least Susan to Patty to Becca, and finally to me.
Or so I thought. Since homecoming, Cady has worn “the coolest flannel” multiple times. This weekend I sent laundry up to the kids’ rooms, and when Cady grabbed her pile, the flannel was on top. Cady’s and my clothes get mixed up a lot, so she dutifully took the flannel from her pile and put it on mine. I promptly replaced it onto her pile, much to her confusion.
“I hearby hand it down to you. You may consider it yours, but do remember the long line of Cadys who have worn it, and wear it well.”
I got a bright smile and a tight hug in response. And as her thick brown hair bobbed up the stairs, I felt pleased to let the flannel serve its purpose for another day.