Some Thoughts About Aprons on Mother's Day

A few years back, I was feeling stressed and I really needed a break. Too much was going on at work and at home and I was getting grumpy and sad. My husband realized I didn't get too many opportunities to relax and he suggested that I go to a spa for a long weekend. I'm not really one to lie around and get pampered but I liked the basic concept. I went in search of a spa that also had some adventure built in. I found one and I also found a friend who was equally stressed out - didn't have to look too far for that - and we ended up spending a week in southern Utah looking at petroglyphs, picking up ancient volcanic rocks and hiking in and around Zion National Park. We also got some manis and pedis and drank a whole lot of cucumber water along the way. We had a great and memorable time, but that's not really my point.

When I mentioned to my parents that I was considering this excursion - that I was taking some vacation time without my family and leaving the boys home with their dad, who was going to have a devil of a time figuring out how to get out of the house on time each morning - I fully expected them to question my rationale, the logistics, and maybe even my sanity. I just assumed my father would have something negative to say about this break in the routine in the middle of a school year. Instead, he said, "Well, its about time you took that 'blankety blank' apron off!" What?! I instantly understood what he meant, but at the same time, I was baffled.

I was/am the furthest thing from a housewife anyone can imagine. I work at a pretty demanding public sector job. I don't bake cupcakes or darn socks. My husband doesn't have a warm plate of meat and potatoes waiting for him when he gets home. In fact, if he doesn't cook it himself, he may not get dinner at all. And we don't sit in our easy chairs in the evening and discuss the day's events. If its springtime, we probably don't see each other during our waking hours unless its on an athletic field somewhere.

But I totally got that my dad saw my family as steeped in domestic predictableness. If it didn't directly involve my job or my kids, I wasn't doing it. I didn't have the time, energy or inclination. But for all the years that my father had known me, up until the time that I settled into motherhood, I chased adventures; stories to tell, photos to take, new people to talk to. African dance class? Sign me up. Driving a cattle truck to Georgia? Sure, I'll ride along and keep you awake. Your friend has a sail plane? I'd love to go up in it! That all came screeching to a halt about 10 years ago. So for my dad, that "apron" was the ultimate and iconic symbol of motherhood and domestic married life. And I guess in his mind, I needed to ditch it temporarily and get back in touch with that other side of myself.

My mom had aprons when I was growing up. I remember a pretty white one with red grosgrain trim; and a yellow one with brown flowers. They lived in a drawer in the kitchen with the potholders and such. It occurs to me now that I probably wore them more than she did. And when she did wear them, it wasn't with pearls, rouge, heels and seamed stockings as 1950's television would have us believe. No, the women I knew who actually wore aprons as part of their wifely uniform were women like my grandmother, dressed in a house coat and slippers, hair covered and unbrushed or maybe even in curlers. Her apron wasn't starched and pressed. It was utterly abused. She used it to clean all manner of gross stuff off her hands, and to carry ears of corn in from the garden, and to wipe our faces, whether they be stained with berry juice or chocolate or tears.

Anyway, I got these conflicting images of aprons in my head and I realized its been a while since I saw anyone wear one. You see them on certain waiters, or at the fish market. The cobbler who keeps the heels attached to my black vintage wing tips wears a leather one, but other than that. . . . I decided I needed to learn more about the history and use of the apron. I did some research. Turns out aprons go back to Adam and Eve when they first tied on fig leaves to cover themselves. They've been traced to numerous cultures throughout time. The actual definition of Apron reads, "A garment worn to protect or adorn the front of a person's clothes." Hmmmm. My father's comment took on a new layer of meaning.

Did Dad see me as using motherhood and domestic obligation as a shield of some sort, to get me out of not just jury duty, but other new experiences as well? Was I stretched so thin that I would forego a unique adventure that I would have jumped at before, and use my "mom" role as the excuse? Uh-oh. The questions mounted. Did I still have it in me? Could I look a new thing in the face and take it on without hesitation? Had my family become my apron, protecting me from embarking on anything new that might push me over some logistical edge (but that could, on its own, be enjoyable)?! Indeed it was time to take the apron off.

I went to Utah. And when I got back, I signed up for my first 3-Day. And I was walking in Boston that first weekend in August in 2007 and I reached a real low point. It was over 100 degrees. I was dehydrating. I had blisters, I was filthy, I was exhausted. Lightening in camp had caused an evacuation the first night and none of us had slept nearly enough. I was hurting by the middle of Day 3.

The safety crew in Boston is essentially a bike patrol. They are fabulous, fit, happy and generous people and my appreciation of them was already running deep. I could hear them coming up from behind and calling out that we only had a couple of miles to go. But I was hurting. A woman in front of me stopped and put both arms over her head to form that definitive "X" that says, "I'm done." "Bring me a sweep van and I'll ride to closing ceremonies." It was really tempting. Then the bike patrol blew by. I had forgotten that they had some sort of Classic TV theme going (The 3-Day is big on themes and costumes; every pit stop, every crew team, every row of porta-potties has some decorating motif). They all had on aprons, a la "Leave it to Beaver" or Carol Brady; aprons of every color, some short, just covering their lap; others long and billowy. Aprons over bicycle shorts and bright orange safety crew shirts. Their "fashion statement" had sent me a strong message.

We were having a great adventure. I was going to have plenty of stories to tell and photos to show. My arms never made it over my head to form that "X." They kept swinging at my sides, keeping pace with the steps that were leading me to the finish line.