Into the Dressing Room...or not, from "Mom Emails"

“How about this?”
“No, daddy, flowers don’t go with pink polka dots!”
“This one?”
“Butterflies and stripes?” (a look of dismay from our younger daughter) “Pink can’t be with yellow, daddy, they don’t match!”
I give my husband a sympathetic look as he hangs the clothes back on the rack.
“I’m going to, um, go look at boy clothes now.”
Both girls absently wave at him as he walks away, shooed so unkindly from the girl zone.

Today in Target, we have decided as a family to go shopping for kid clothes. My husband, always helpful, has bravely been attempting to put girlie outfits together for our 8 and 10-year-old daughters.

And unfortunately, at least according to our girls, he has failed miserably at that.

Poor guy, he really does try. Some day, they will appreciate his fashion sense and interest…but not today.
Because today, we are here to not only pick out, “New Spring Outfits,” but outfits that can also serve as, “School Picture Outfits.” You know, those over-priced, over-posed, hit-and-miss pictures that end up as grandparent bragging fodder.
And because I know my fashion sense is not only gloriously out of touch to an 8 and a 10-year-old, I stand back. Way back. In other words, I wisely opt out of putting my two-cents into anything fashion related that touches their dear, little hands.
Because I grew up differently.
My mom loved to dictate to me what I could and could not wear. And in the 1970’s folks, that really sucked. Remember platform shoes? Too high. Satin pants and jackets? Too tight, too trendy. Peasant skirts? Too ragged. Lace-up jeans? Too sexy. Anything made of cloth? Too low, too high, too red, too blue, too old, young, expensive, cheap, disco, hip-happening, popular…too me.
What was left then, you ask? Polyester stretchy pants. Holly Hobby skirts. Wrangler jeans. Plain-Jane t-shirts (no graphics). Oh yeah, mom was determined to make me into a fashion and social outcast.
Baggage you say? Yes, I say. And not the cute kind.
Now, you may say that it’s shallow and silly to care about stuff like that as a kid. Even more so to hold onto a grudge as an adult. And to that…I blow you a big, fat, slave-to-fashion raspberry.
Fast forward to my life with my kids (she said, stamping her foot like the teenager she isn't). I am determined to allow my children to have their own clothing choices. As long as; 1) we can afford it, 2) they’re clean clothes and don’t smell, and 3) their girl bits and pieces are covered. Once they’re of age, I can’t even say much about #3 because as an ex-punk rocker (oh yeah, mom got it back in spades once I moved out) I can’t say that my girl bits and pieces stayed covered 100% of the time.
But for now, I walk my two little darlings back to the changing rooms with their sane choices and begin to follow them back into the stalls.
When, it happens.
The moment I have been expecting.
The little hands go up and the faces get that slightly pitying look as they both explain to me that I am not needed in the dressing room, thank you very much. They explain this to me politely, mind you, but the line was definitely drawn in the sand.
Oh dear.
I paste a brave smile on my face and back away, telling them both that I will be cheerfully waiting for them at the front.
And I leave them to it.

“I’m going to wait here for my girls,” I explain to the two sales ladies out front.
“Okay,” says Too-Young-To-Understand Sales Lady #1.
“This is the first time I’ve been told to leave.” I laugh nervously.
“Guess they’re growing up, mom,” says Old-Enough-To-Get-It Sales Lady #2.
“Yep. So…I guess…I’ll just…wait.” I stare off into space, mind whirring. “Maybe I should ask for them to come out and show me? Once they pick an outfit they like?” I don’t know why I am seeking absolution from Sale Lady #1 and #2, but, for some reason, I don’t know what to do with myself all of a sudden. Plus, I start to feel like I’ve become a slightly varied shade of my mom.
Which is unsettling at best.
“That’s probably a good plan,” Sales Lady #2 smiles at me.
Sales Lady #1 shrugs her shoulders.
I dismiss Sales Lady #1 immediately and return Sales Lady #2’s smile. “Okay, I’m just going to go tell them that.”
I inch my way down the changing room hallway to relay this message to my girls, when I am overtaken by another mom and her daughter. The mom looks harried as she pushes her way past me, and her daughter dutifully follows her with an armload of “New Spring Outfits.” Pushy Mom then proceeds to shove her way in the door of the change room while giving her daughter instructions.
“I want you to try those on first. Those shorts with that top. If they look good, then try on that dress afterwards.”
And she stands there.
With the door to her daughter’s changing room wide open.
While her 13-year-old proceeds to do as she told.
I was horrified.
I shrunk back down to the mirror at the head of the hallway. At the same time, I felt myself shrinking into that fashion micro-managed 13-year-old again. I have the sudden urge to throw my debit card at my girls and tell them to finish their shopping, I would not in any way be telling them what to choose.
At that moment my 10-year-old pops out of her dressing room wearing a dress that looked fabulous on her.
“I love it!”
“I think it’s a little short,” my daughter replies, fingering the black and polka dotted skirt. “It just feels weird.”
“Oh,” I eyed the hem of the dress, which sits exactly at the bottom of her knees. “Really?” My mind whirrs away as I am trying to recall just when she joined a convent. “Well, pick what you want to, honey. If you’re not comfortable, there’s lots of other dresses in the store.”
She nods and disappears back into her dressing room. I catch the eye of the other mom who is manhandling her teenager into one of the t-shirts she had picked for her, and again, I am horrified. I assume the child has been dressing herself since she was 3-years-old, but, in this case, I could be wrong. However, trying to give Pushy Mom the benefit of the doubt, I remind myself just last month, I had been struggling with my 8-year-old to get her into a pair of jeans. But that was because they had that funky button-and-elastic adjustable waist band.
Right? Right?
I quietly wonder if she could have done it all herself. And then I make a mental note to show my daughter how to adjust her own waistband in the future.
“We’re getting these shorts and this top,” Pushy Mom huffs. “You say you like the dress, but I think the color is wrong for your skin.” And out she goes with her purchases leaving her daughter to hang up the dress, hands running over it longingly.
And I do not use that last word on a lark.
I catch the 13-year-old’s eye as she makes her way down the hallway, dress in hand, and give her an encouraging “hang in there” smile. She returns it and I believe we have some sort of understanding. If I could have, folks, I would have bought her the dress myself.
There are so many ways to micro-manage your kids. I fully admit that I do it. And I daresay all parents are guilty to some degree. I have a horrid time with field trips, I’m not really fond of my girls playing in the front yard when we have a perfectly fine (and fenced-in) backyard, I don’t readily hand them over on play dates until I get to know the parents and I don’t like other people driving them around. I know some of these quirks are my unreasonable baggage. But clothes? No way. I may eat my words five years from now when the latest trend is polo shirts and beige Dockers, for that would truly horrify me. But I would suck it up—I swear I would—and let them be.
Because there are other things to fuss over.
For now, “New Spring Outfits” boiled down to a yellow sundress that almost reached my 10-year-olds ankles, and a ruffled, hot pink skirt and matching, ruffled t-shirt that made my 8-year-old look like she belonged in a Cyndi Lauper video.
But I love them both…and I’m not just talking about the outfits.