“I can’t believe I’m sending my child to school dressed like a ragamuffin!”
“I am so perturbed right now, Ali, I’m going to sell you to the gypsies.”
“Do you know how many hours I have to work to pay for this closet full of clothing that you never wear?”
“I have been working like a slave all day!”
“Do not make me pull this car over!!!”
“Were you raised in a barn?”
“Because I said so!”
“If [insert friend name here] jumped off a bridge, would you do that too?”
“I have had it up to HERE!”
“You cannot go out with wet hair—you will catch a cold!”
—Ali’s mom, circa anywhere between 1978 and today.
I always laugh about the go-to Momisms. My mom isn’t just the person who fixes my bra straps, you know. She was the queen of the one liners!
Apparently, I was a cold-catching wet-haired ragamuffin who was getting sold to the gypsies. Also, I never wore any of my clothes—and I was clearly raised in a barn.
Sold to the gypsies?
Really?! Is that a thing? Did people actually get sold to the gypsies? I remember that once my mom told me that I had to change my outfit because I looked like Omar the Tentmaker, and I’m still—to this day—scratching my head over this one.
Omar? Is that you?
So, I laugh.
And yet.
I found myself sending Miss Isabella to school this morning in a green sundress, a pair of purple-flowered sandals, a giant orange headband, a too-small white cardigan, and a too-large polka dotted hoodie. Of course, at age 6, she is allowed her freedom of wardrobe, and so I don’t make too much of a fuss over what she chooses to wear.
And then, it just poured out of my mouth.
“I can’t believe I’m sending my child to school dressed like a ragamuffin!”
I guess I better brush up on my one-liners.
And figure out who the heck Omar the Tentmaker is…
Because, well, apparently I am my mother.

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