I had
stopped shopping for myself. Some of my
bras had actual holes in the fabric. I had underwear that, if it were a child,
would be in first grade.
My closet descended
into a cabinet full of beautiful high-end items -- many from the Clinton administration
– things I had no occasion to wear, and crap from stores where you could also
buy things like fluorescent-colored relish and anti-fungal creams. Gradually,
getting dressed devolved into creating an outfit from a late 90s thrift shop
and a bag of clothes someone wore in a food fight.
Since my
pesky kids wouldn’t stop growing, I poured my clothing dollars and my fashion
sense into their wardrobes. I’d live vicariously through what I purchased for
them. If they looked good, it could only reflect positively on me, right?
People would say to themselves, "That mom might be slovenly and
disheveled, but her darling children and their stylish outfits tell us she's
got it goin' on!"
But last
week, I realized that I had let things downgrade way too far. Lady A’s preschool was having a ribbon
cutting for the new building façade and lobby.
Parents were invited to attend the ceremony, as were the faculty,
administration, the school’s board of trustees, and even several local
politicos. I had planned to grab my little
girl before the festivities began and be nowhere in sight when the glitterati
gathered. Instead, as usual, I couldn’t
get my act together in time, and arrived just as the children and all the honored
guests had assembled in front of the building.
Even
though I saw another mom dressed in everyday attire listening to the tribute
before taking her son home, there was no way I was going anywhere near the
front entrance. Dressed in a long-sleeve,
red and orange striped shirt, black jeans and Converse, I looked like a 40-something-year-old
reject from the cast of 70s Zoom. I
sat in my car halfway down the street until it was over and I could leave with
my little girl in anonymity.
This had
to end.
The very
next day, I took myself to Marshall’s and bought some tops and sweaters.
Walking
through the line to check out, I noticed several displays full of kid stuff. My mental ticker tape began. “Oh look at
those barettes for Lady A! And more
books for Mr. R! They would love. . . ”
What the hell was I doing? I thought. Couldn’t I leave a store and buy something only
for me? It was bad enough that right after I left Marshall’s I’d be scurrying
through three separate grocery stores to make sure my little angels had their
preferred menu. Did I need to bring them back some more things that would soon
be lost, trashed or left in toy limbo?
Hey-ell no.
Another
woman was mulling over some frilly headbands. “I am not buying my children one.
More. Thing.” I proclaimed aloud as I walked away from the display and took my
place in line. “They have everything and I have NOTHING.”
“You’re
right!” agreed the woman. “You’ve
inspired me. I was going to buy
something for my girls, but they have plenty.”
I stood a
few inches taller, feeling perversely self-satisfied for having encouraged
another mom to join me in going to a store and buying not a thing for her
children. I didn’t know if a little more
denial in my kids’ lives would stave off resentment fueled rages about how
little I did for myself; and it certainly wouldn’t replenish my underwear
drawers with cute little sets. Still, it
was a step in the right direction.
I
mattered.
I could
treat myself and no one else.
And most
of all, buying my kids a ton of shit didn’t make me a better mother.
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