You are Not My Mother

Frost had two soccer games today and Wren and I took a walk outside at halftime.  It was bitterly cold so I wrapped a shawl around my head.  Wren was upset by this.

He said, "You look like a person from another land!  You are not my mother!  Take it OFF NOW!"

He was so disturbed that I decided that I shall wear headscarves more often, perhaps wear saris from time to time and flaunt a bit of Zulu finery.    Clearly, my child has not been exposed to enough variety  if The Other is defined by a headscarf.

I returned to soccer still wearing my rebellious headgear and saw Mark (who hails from India himself).  "What's with the burka?" he asked.

Seriously, people.  Apparently we need more headscarves around here!   Woman of North Seattle, get thee a shawl and wear it!  The worst case scenario is that you are mistaken for an immigrant, a Muslim or a Waldorf teacher. 

Wren, this is not your mother. *

This is your mother.

* For those of you not in Seattle, the joke relates to a recent front page article in the Seattle Times which featured a woman in my neighborhood who has taken the Eat Local dictum to a new level by trapping and drowning squirrels to skin and cook in Le Creuset to feed to her upper-middle-class family.  Meanwhile, Dad shoots the baby goats to fill the Energy Star deep freeze.