The teacher's assistants at my son's schools are an endless parade of fresh fashion and youthful ease. Gorgeous skin, shiny hair, the eager willingness to wear heels to school to chase after kindergartners and of course, the hallmark of youth in all its finest: no cellulite.
The TAs this year were my fashion fix. Miss Mooney and her ikat minidreses and romanesque sandals, looking like a blonde pixie gladiator standing over the kids in the lunchroom. Miss Grasser in True Religion jeans and long, draped sweaters, and Ms. Smith and her ankle grazing skirts, paired with a vintage-looking leather bomber jacket. I am telling you, it's good to be young. I've been paying attention, girls. Your fashion choices have not been lost on this mom.
And then there is my beloved Miss Weaver. The kids love Liz—she started a fashion craze with her candy-colored rain boots and army jacket, bag slung across the body like you would see on any college campus. It's the uniform of urban hipness but in a world where mothers carpool in Mercedes SUVs, fresh with sweat from a girlie tennis match at the Club, urban is guerilla in this context. It is gritty, it is cool, and it is interesting. But what makes Miss Weaver special is that skin and her curly hair. She really does look like a cherub, but she has a sharp wit and clear eyes that make her utterly charming to everyone from the retired old salty coach to the little girls who beg to race her on the blacktop at recess.
There she was, an Amazon flanked by tiny people, counting backward to one. Would she let them win and preserve their fragile egos, or would Miss Weaver rush to the other side in her striped boatneck and white jeans, leaving the kids forever worshipping her prowess in every respect. Miss Weaver and her pomegranate manicures. Miss Weaver and her pea coat. Miss Weaver and her winning smile.
Miss Weaver was tough on them. And then she was back for more in an orange eyelet baby doll top and colored denim skirt. And she tells us she got a "real" job and is leaving. I will miss her, with her endless wearable scrapbook of cute clothes and her sideways smile. My son fell in love with her on day three and I think he might have fabulous taste in women based on this alone. Miss Weaver may leave but a little shadow of her watercolor floral cotton lawn top will always hang over the playground. Thank you, Miss Weaver, for a fantastic fashion show this year. But the pressure is on, Miss Mooney. Do not disappoint me come third grade.
