School Shopping 101 (For Boys)
When I was a kid, it was an annual summer ritual to shop for new school clothes with my mom. She would haul my sisters and I to Lloyd Center in Portland, Oregon, which at the time, with 104 stores, was the largest shopping center in the world. (They didn’t call them malls then, they were shopping centers). She would cram her three girls into a dressing room in Lerners, Penneys, or Meier and Frank, threaten us with death if we left, then bring us hordes of clothes to try on. We didn’t know it then, but we had our own personal shopper.
Fast forward to now, when my two sisters and I have collectively spawned five sons. Not growing up with boys, we had no experience with males and shopping, other than witnessing the few times my dad held my mom’s purse so she could better assess the quality of twin set sweaters by touching them.
I don’t remember who came up with the bright idea, but somehow the three of us agreed it’d be fun to take our sons school clothes shopping the way our mom did with us. We were going to make a day of it, including lunch at a sit-down restaurant, where we’d plan our day like a platoon embarking on a strategic mission
So off we go to TJ Maxx, where we pile our brood (ages two to seven) into two dressing rooms and strip them down to their underwear. One sister stays with them, while my other sister and I go on reconnaissance. As I search for the perfect pair of khakis in a size 6x on a messy display table that looks like it was pillaged by rats, I catch a glimpse of a Winnie-the-Pooh clad butt disappear under a rounder of rugby shirts. When I investigate, I see it’s my nephew, who has escaped, and is clutching a women’s purse I don’t recognize. I call my sister on her cell.
“Hello?” She answers.
“Hey, could you do a head count of our kids?” After a pause, she explodes in terror when she realizes she’s one short.
“That’s okay. I got him right here. But unfortunately, he’s snatched someone’s purse.” Right then I hear through the phone a woman scream “Oh my God, my purse is gone.”
“I’m on my way,” I say and hang up.
As I enter the dressing rooms, I hear the sweetest little voice say, “Why is your back so fat?” I turn the corner just in time to see my son and another nephew watching a woman check herself out in a mirror. The kids look at me. “Mom, how come her back and tummy hang over her pants?” At this point, it’s too awkward to pretend I don’t know these kids. The woman looks at me with disdain, retreats to her dressing room and slams the door.
Right then, Sister Number Three returns with armloads of kid clothes. “Who’s first?” She says cheerfully. Suddenly another dressing room door opens and a woman appears holding my two-year-old nephew at arm’s length like he’s toxic waste. “Is this yours?” She says, irritated. “He’s been crawling between dressing rooms.
Now Purse Woman appears from nowhere, grabs her satchel from me and unleashes unhelpful and unwanted advice on how to raise kids.
“I trust this will all make sense later,” Sister Number Three whispers to me.
As Sister Number Two and I take our lumps from Purse Woman, the whole episode comes to a halt by the sound of breaking glass. We all run out to floor area, and standing next to a shattered display case amidst what looks like broken Fabrege Eggs is my nephew and another kid I don’t recognize. My nephew looks at us wide-eyed, points to the kid next to him and calmly says, “He did it.”
“Time to go.” Sister Number Three quickly mutters.
Which brings me to our lesson learned that day. Just because we had a great experience doing something as kids, doesn’t mean our kids will enjoy it, too. We were different kids defined by a different time. And as much as I want to share my childhood with my boys, some things are best left as stories told by the fire on a winter evening.
So my sons’ memories of school shopping will consist of gathering round the computer and selecting clothes online from Overstock.com and the Lands End’s website. And you know what? They’re just fine with that.
