Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday?

to run around like savages, half naked and covered in mud. I like it that way. I choose not to expend outrageous amounts of energy trying to get them to sit still when they will find a way to drive me nuts anyway. I find them funny. I don’t want a bunch of buttoned-up, beaten-down miniature adults. My parenting style may be very different, but is it any less valid? I’ll do my thing and you do yours.

Usually, though, I think it best to seek out friends who have similar parenting styles. Because that’s all this really is, in the end: a matter of style. Every parent does the job a little differently, and I consider myself blessed when I stumble on people who can enjoy our chaos for what it is.

We recently had a couple over with their children, a “playdate” if you must, and there were seven kids buzzing around the apartment. These people were new acquaintances of ours. We hadn’t been forced by proximity or similar-aged children into spending time with them, but instead had chosen to do so because of their appeal as adults. They had brought a lovely bottle of champagne, which we drank, and for a few hours we sat around and chatted and got to know one another better. Swirling around us was a virtual hurricane of activity. Balls were flying, swings were swinging, action figures were acting. Computers all over the house were pumping out iTunes, or the drone of World of Warcraft as keyboards went tick, tick, tick. The smaller children would occasionally look over at the television to pick up a clue from Blue, while the projector beamed wrestling matches from Nacho Libre up on the wall. One of my children decided to serve cheese and crackers to our guests, especially the lady, and insisted on preparing the delicacies with his grimy little hands. There was a potty incident—there always is—and my four-year-old came shooting through the room in full Superman regalia, right down to the floor-length cape and bright red boots. At one point we had to separate my youngest boy from her youngest girl so as to terminate some tribal mating ritual known only to toddlers.

This all might sound a bit annoying, but my guests were not affected by it in any way. They knew how to laugh and seemed to be enjoying our combined cluster of boisterous children. I like these people. Mind you, there were seven kids between the ages of twenty months and twelve years barreling through our loft, but no one ever had to yell at anyone or level a time-out or complain about any injustice. (Well, who would dare, with Superman himself in the room?) For the most part the adults were being adults and the children were being children. The evening was very old-fashioned, really. It reminded me of the times my parents would visit with relatives or neighbors: my brother and I would run off and play with other kids’ toys in other kids’ rooms, knowing our parents were somewhere in the house, having adult time, which was boring. I spoke with one of my cousins the other day, and he said to me, “Laura, I still remember when you were eight and you would put on your Wonder Woman costume and run around the house like a crazy person, cape flowing out behind you. Do you remember that?”

Yes, I remember that. I still don the occasional costume.

In my house, things haven’t really changed that much since the days of Please Don’t Eat the Daisies, when the kids ran wild as the adults orbited around them, looking smart in their tea dresses and dapper suits. Jean Kerr didn’t spend too much time worrying about how to raise her children; she mostly just got out of their way and then wrote about them so she could have a mental room of her own. I think maybe Nora Ephron nailed it in I Feel Bad About My Neck, when she wrote about how parenting as we know it is a modern phenomenon. There used to just be parents, now there is parenting. Somewhere between June Cleaver and Bree Van de Kamp there must be an explanation for how we got to a place where toddlers eat sushi.

FABULOUSLY GLAMOROUS

^{“I say dress up every day. You never know when you are going to meet your next husband.”}

I WANT TO BE AUNTIE MAME WHEN I GROW UP. I WANT TO have an apartment with a sweeping staircase that I can descend daily, to be greeted by my dedicated staff and adoring assistants. I want to act as if money means nothing to me, because I am above concern with such things. I want to don glamorous cocktail dresses at five, and drip with jewels. I want to age gracefully, live without regret, and take full advantage of every opportunity that comes my way. I want to position myself in history as a gay icon, and that takes style.

Thanks to certain considerate movie directors, I have a very clear how-to guide. I have a ways to go— particularly in the “sweeping staircase” and “adoring assistant” departments—not to mention that Mame had one polite boy and I have five of the insane variety. Still, this clear picture is helpful in setting the standard for my personal style. Would Mame wear wrinkled capris and an ill-fitting T-shirt to her nephew Patrick’s kindergarten performance at school? Would Mame show up at a black-tie affair in some plain-Jane dress and fade into the woodwork? Would Mame put her heirloom diamond cuff in a safety deposit box to languish, unused? Would she, at the lowest financial moment of her life, just give up on style and not dig to the bottom of her resourceful little soul to make sure she turned heads when she entered the room? Hell, no, and neither would I.

Style is not about money. It’s about making a conscious decision to present yourself to the world in a particular manner. Does my style say my kids have taken over my life and I haven’t had sex in decades? Or does it say I’m fabulous, and these boys are going to have a hell of a time finding a girl like dear old Mom? Style is about having a clear understanding of who you are and what you want out of life. It’s about trusting your instincts and conveying your personal message. Style knows no age or size. It’s easy to dismiss those with great style by saying “If I had a ton of money, I would have great style, too.” I beg to differ. Gabrielle Chanel, an orphaned and penniless girl in France at the turn of the twentieth century, didn’t let the poor-house atmosphere stop her from becoming Coco. In fact, it may have helped. At this point in my life, I have more than I ever dreamed of, but it hasn’t always been this way. Back when I was a struggling single working mother, I still dressed with great style. I feel lucky that I had to do more with less. It taught me a valuable lesson: money is by far the most overused accessory. You actually need very little to have great style.

I have too many kids and too little time, but I still manage to maintain a level of style. I dress up every day. It keeps me from getting sucked under. When you are forty-five years old and have six children, it’s a slippery slope to sweat pants and a minivan. Dressing well actually takes very little effort, but it makes a huge difference in the way I feel and the way others feel about me. It is just as easy to pull on a simple dress or tailored trousers as it is to pull on a pair of tatty mom jeans. I have worked out a simple system that makes it easy to dress nicely every day and takes just a small amount of extra time. Think of it as developing a uniform.

First, you need to find the cinematic version of yourself. I don’t expect the full frontal glamour of Auntie Mame to be for everyone; it takes a lot of guts to leave the house with your neckline plunging to your waist. I recommend instead that you find your own icon of cinematic style. How about the understated chic of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? If you are looking for casual elegance, take a page from Katharine Hepburn’s fabulous oeuvre and dress like you’re vacationing On Golden Pond. Catherine Deneuve is the ultimate in retro sophistication in Belle de Jour, though I can’t recommend her career choice. How about the menswear look of Diane Keaton in Annie Hall? I love the smart sexiness of Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair and the theatricality of Jennifer Hudson as Effie White in Dreamgirls. Once you’ve chosen your fashion film, take your cues from your leading lady. Most movies will show your character dressing for all occasions, and don’t forget to watch for hairstyles and accessories.

Once your personal vision is clear, seek out a few quality pieces that convey your vision and flatter your body type. These are the key wardrobe essentials, the basics of your uniform. The first thing to find is a simple, versatile dress that you can transform with accessories. Next on your list is a perfectly fitting pair of trousers and the type of skirt that works best on your body type. Add a great tailored jacket and a couple of nice blouses. It’s that easy; these are the workhorses of any wardrobe, so this is where you want to go for quality over quantity. The clothes should fit you perfectly; have them tailored if necessary. These pieces don’t need to be a matched set, but they should blend, so you can mix them together. If your simple dress is a bohemian print, think about a solid jacket with some handcrafted detail, so it has the same feeling as the dress and they can be worn together. Just fill in with some seasonal T-shirts, sweaters, and the occasional inexpensive trendy item, and I promise this wardrobe will take you anywhere in the world.

Now that your garment rack is looking purposeful, it is time to consider your shoe wardrobe. Personally, I