Mullis: I may be alive, but my decade is old

Homecoming at my kids' high school includes a series of themed dress-up days. It amuses me to watch my teenagers racking their brains and wrecking my house for costumes. Often, I help.

This year, my freshman daughter needed “something from the 1690s.”

She explained it was for Decade Day, and the freshmen were stuck with the 1690s.

After tossing every closet, we found an old costume my oldest daughter wore when she was Abigail Adams for her fifth-grade play. It was a century off, but with the white ruffled cap, my freshman looked... like she was ready to churn butter.

Close enough for high school.

I didn’t know what decade my senior son had until he tapped my shoulder the morning of Decade Day. Mouth full of breakfast, he gestured to his throat.

What?

He swallowed. “I need stuff.”

For your throat?

“No, to wear.”

He explained his decade was the 1990s.

Pearl Jam’s “Alive” started playing in my head, the soundtrack of a tidal wave of thoughts, the first being there is no way that decade is old enough to be a dress-up day for high school kids. I graduated from college in 1995. And, as Eddie Vedder sang, “I’m still alive!”

“Mom?”

Besides, it’s not even a challenge. All he needed was a thermal long-sleeve shirt, an old flannel with every button unbuttoned and jeans. Oh, and Doc Marten boots.

“Mom?”

I chuckled to myself. This outfit would work for a girl, too. How many nights would I see folks from a distance and not know if they were girls or boys until they were in front of my face?

“Mom?”

Okay.

I told my son to follow me.

It was a comfortable decade, which is why the 1990s clothes lingered so long in our closets. Well, that and early poverty. Heck, flannels, thick-heeled shoes, concert T-shirts, and jeans baggy enough for two were my first maternity clothes. These items didn’t leave in Goodwill bags, but garbage bags, having been washed to pieces.

The flannels were the last to go, but one remained from our college days. Technically, it’s my husband's shirt, but we both wear it from time to time. Also, my husband still has his Doc Martens boots. He wore those Docs on our wedding day in 1996.

I knew everything would fit. My son is nearly my husband’s height and wears the same shoe size my husband does. In fact, with exception of his head – which my side of the gene pool bothered to splash with a few details – his whole physique is from my husband’s side of the gene pool.

I gave my son the shirt and boots like heirlooms, explaining their history.

My son checked his watch.

“Cool.”

Yes. Very cool.

I headed to the kitchen, where my youngest waited with a box of safety pins. I pinned her dress, now singing “Alive” under my breath.

Minutes later, my son returned, telling my youngest they had to go. I froze. He didn't just look like his father; he looked like my friend from college. I stared at him, thinking he is two birthdays away from being the age my husband was when we first met.

My son stared back at me.

“What?”

Nothing.

I may be alive, but my decade is old.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith”, now available as an ebook. She can be reached at nlvm.columns@gmail.com or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.