Light Refreshments Served

It’s back to school time, and don’t you know I’m stocked up on paper and fresh Sharpies and it feels great. I took a new approach to school shopping and didn’t take the boys, who didn’t want to go, and just took Phoebe, who wanted to go. I feel that this is a huge breakthrough for me. The boys wear their uniform (jeans and a t-shirt) and they’re good. I just make sure they’re clean and everything fits and that they’re wearing clean underwear, which is harder than it sounds, thank you. Phoebe and I playfully compromise our styles in clothes (I encourage less glitter and in-your-face girl power slogans and more unique and quirky vintage, if you care to know), but we always agree on shoes. It’s a nice system. A system that ends with ice cream.

I also get itching to do some back to school shopping for myself and my house (why do I always want to rearrange the furniture in the fall?), but I’m trying to be even more selective on what goes in my home (only stuff I love) and getting rid of stuff I’ve tolerated for too long (junk). I’m past the point of thinking “Well, someday I might recover these pillows and I’ll need forms, so here are some old pillows I will save, and move, and move, and look at, and store some more. . .” or “Well, someday I might really fit into these jeans and I’ll be glad I have saved them.” No I won’t. Because they’ll be out of style before I fit into them (no, not a harsh personal statement, just liberating). But then I love to change things up, too. Who wants to stare at the same pillows for 10 years?

I just stumbled on this website and I like looking at it. I like the combination of inexpensive and cute. Maybe I’ll buy one complete outfit from earrings to clothes to shoes, one day. Is that wise?

And maybe I should repaint my bedroom to a calmer color. You know, calmer than beige.

And I think I’ll paint a mural in the kids bedroom now that they don’t want “baby prints” on the walls. So what should I paint?

Why am I crazy to change everything at this time of the year? (Is it the Sharpies?)

My husband and I are at opposite ends of the shopping spectrum. I buy most of my clothing online, and if it is even remotely suitable when it arrives in the mail, I keep it. He goes on shopping sprees for specific items, and when he finds one he likes, he buys five or six. So, for instance, he has been on a shirt binge lately, and when he found a soccer-type shirt he liked at a factory outlet, he bought it in every color they had. He wore them all. Then he washed them. Now they don’t fit anymore, and they’re sitting in the Deseret Industries bag on the bedroom floor.

His latest quest is for the Perfect White Shirt. His standards in this regard are very exacting. It has to be exactly right in the neck. The sleeves must be long enough, but not too long. It must fit comfortably around his midsection. And he prefers that it be a no-iron finish.

Unfortunately, this shirt does not seem to exist. The biggest problem seems to be the neck-to-waist ratio; if the neck fits, the middle is too snug, but if he fits it to his torso, the neck is too roomy.

The problem is, he keeps finding shirts that he THINKS are right. They SEEM in the store to be right. He comes home gleefully, packing five of them. At last, he tells me, he has found His Shirt. Then, when he wears the first one, something is invariably wrong (though it mysteriously seemed perfect in the store), and suddenly all the shirts must go back. He has purchased and returned 20 shirts to various stores over the past six weeks (and that doesn’t count the soccer shirts in the D.I. bag).

I know I shouldn’t let this drive me crazy. The credit card bill with all these back-and-forth transactions is his personal card, not our family one, so I won’t even technically have to look at it. But I’ve about had it. I’m about ready to slap him upside the head and tell him to get over it and just SETTLE ON A DANG SHIRT FORCRYINGOUTLOUD!

That’s just the kind of sweet, supportive wife I am.

But now I must end this post, as he has brought home a new batch of Perfect White Shirts and needs me to iron one of them for his regular 4:30 a.m. Tuesday temple excursion with the bishopric. And I have to take care not to scorch it or press in any extra creases, just in case it has to go back to the store . . .

Tomorrow, my youngest daughter celebrates her 17th birthday. In honor of the occasion, I am taking the Whole Day Off. We will go shopping, take my mom to lunch, and attend a matinee of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. (We prepared for this last night by renting Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 1, after kicking all the men out of the house so they couldn’t come in making shmoopy noises right at the most romantic parts.) Then, in the evening, we will go miniature golfing and end up in the batting cages. (That is, the children will end up in the batting cages, and possibly their father. I will sit on a bench outside the batting cages and cheer supportively.)
I find myself feeling really grateful that Sylvia is still young enough to want to spend a day this way. Next year at this time, I expect we’ll be moving her into a dorm room or a student apartment somewhere. And as early as next week, she’ll be driving herself off to the high school for the first day of her senior year. I’ll say goodbye at the door of the house instead of the door of the school, and we may cross paths in the evening sometimes if she doesn’t have a study group or a madrigal performance or a seminary council meeting or Mutual or work.
But, just for tomorrow, we’ll be seventeen-going-on-twelve, and we’re going to love it for all it’s worth. It’s worth more than she knows.

I get really excited about back to school shopping, but I never learn.  I’m always genuinely bewildered that they boys aren’t as excited about picking out new clothes to wear.  A couple of days ago, completely seriously, I said, ”Hey guys!  I have a fun idea!  Let’s go through all your clothes and see what still fits and make a list of what you need and then go and get some back to school clothes!!!  Wouldn’t that be fun!?”  

Miles, my 10 year-old said, dryly,  ”Uh, Mom, I think your idea of fun and MY idea of fun are completely different.”  Owen, my 8 year-old and Miles’ cohort in all things, nodded in agreement.  

After the list was made, we went out in a forcible search of a few items.  The boys wanted this:

Which caused me to wince.  I tried to talk them into this:

But they made it clear that money spent on these shirts would be money crumpled in the back of their drawers until that money no longer fit.  So I used my expert skills of logic and reason.  I gave them the “dress for success” lecture.  I gave them the “girls like a well-dressed man” lecture (that argument actually backfired.)  I gave them the “well, tough–it’s my money” lecture (my personal favorite), and ended on the “compromise” lecture.  They don’t want “collared shirts” and I don’t want “tacky video game tee shirts.”  We can agree on tee shirts with “artistically interesting designs.”  

In the end, I’m trying to raise boys with a strong sense of self.  I want them to know who they are and what they like, but I torture myself because I also want them to have good taste.  I freely admit it’s a pride issue, too.  I don’t want other parents (mostly mothers) to see my kid and assume that all they do is play video games, or that they’re lazy and sit on the couch all day drinking soda and eating trans fats.  I don’t really care, but I do a little bit.  

But now my daughter, Phoebe, is starting kindergarten, so it’s a WHOLE NEW GAME.  We went to shopping and instantly agreed on a couple of dresses, sweaters, and shoes to match (”fer cute!”).  It satisfied my shopping for school clothes cravings and let the boys completely off the hook.  There was no plea for a tee shirt with the logo of “Camp Rock” printed all over it, or “Hannah Montana,” who my daughter thinks “is nerdy.”  (I know, how did I get so lucky, right?)  It was simple.  So, for positive reinforcement, she got the “we’ve really stretched our budget shopping here” lecture and ”building your wardrobe” lecture, ending with the ”isn’t this a fun tradition to have” lecture.  The lectures I’ve been waiting five years to give.

It is Thursday night, and it occurs to me that Enrichment is at 6:30.  They’re serving dinner, so I should probably go.  I check my computer and look up movie times for the Chinese Theater before I leave.  Looks like Enrichment starts at either 7:30, 8:00, or 9:00.  I aim for the 8 o’clock, enough time to squeeze in some chicken sandwiches and fruit salad with the women in my ward.  A woman who I love and adore gets up and begins to speak about feeding a family of 6 on $82 a week.  I only have a family of 4, and I suspect she didn’t factor in fruit snacks, so I figure this doesn’t apply to me and I chart my exit strategy.

I call my husband from the parking lot: “Hey hon, I just wanted to let you know that Enrichment has been moved to the Mann Chinese Theater.  I’ll see you around 10:00?”  He is chuckling as I hang up.  Just as I said, I got home around 10:00. 

“So, what movie did you go see?”  My husband asked. 
“Uhhh…We Are Marshall Meets Old Navy?” 
“What?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly make it to the movie.  I sorta went shopping.”
“Oh.  How was it?”
“A little more expensive than the movie. But I’m feeling very enriched.”
“Excellent.”
I win.

Every three months or so, I test out my skills of logic, patience, and endurance in a feat that would make grown men quiver and run: I take all my children out in public by myself.

Because it was my birthday yesterday, I got a little overconfident and really started believing that it was “my day.” Good friends brought over cards and gifts and it made me believe that I actually deserved a day off–that it was expected of me, and who was I to disappoint everyone? I’m a pleaser, after all. It’s like I have to take it easy, or it’s offensive. The problem was, as it goes, that no one told my children that I wasn’t supposed to do the dishes, kill the ants in the kitchen, call the exterminator, get snacks according to the whims of the three year-old, or change the bedding on the urine-soaked beds. Yes, more than one bed.

But as the night of my birthday approached, I wasn’t ready to end my day without actually leaving the house to do something special with my kids. So I thought it would be fun to take all of the kids to a movie! I’m typing this now laughing at myself. At the time–in that moment when I was seriously considering buying tickets for me and five children under 10–I must have been high on my birthday napoleon to even entertain the thought for more than a second. But then that thought, like so many thoughts during the day, was crushed by the piercing screams of Hugh, the infamous three year-old, indignant in his Batman costume that no one was scrambling to fulfill his immediate fancy for a bowl of Honey-nut Cheerios.

So I did the next insane idea that popped into my head: go shopping! In my defense, here’s my internal dialogue: Who doesn’t want to pick out a new shirt on their birthday! It seems logical, right? A little pop down to the shops? It’s no big deal, right? I mean, I don’t normally do this because it seems like a hassle, but since we don’t normally do this, it will be a treat, right? They’ll be extra good because they know it’s my birthday, and I make their birthday’s so special, so they know it’s a big deal, right? Twenty minutes later I’m in the middle of Old Navy, of all places, with the florescent lighting above me, head spinning, counting children as they just do what they do, and internally scolding myself for setting myself up to fail while at the same time trying to justify to myself that what I’m asking isn’t too much. (It sounds like I’m crazy, arguing with myself, and I have no response for that.) Again, in my defense, it was my day.

I don’t want to recount the details of that little trip to the store because it makes me physically cringe and maybe throw-up a little, but one particular moment stands out. As I’m crammed in one of the little stalls with all five children, the stroller, and two shirts and three pairs of pants I’ll just try on real quick. . . Owen, the 8 year-old, who should know better, says, as I’m changing, “Oh, I didn’t know you’re pregnant again!” I reply dryly, “Yeah, no, I’m not.”

So I’m good to stay home for another three months.

Emily says: I think you should get a do-over on this one. Get a baby-sitter for two hours, and shop in solitary bliss. I wish I had done that more when I was your age. (Oh my gosh, I HATE it when people say “when I was your age.” Is my saying it just another symptom of MY age? ) Anyway, I finally found out that it was okay for my kids to recognize that I’m an actual person with needs of my own that don’t necessarily always revolve around theirs. Then, when I DO work extra hard to meet their needs, they see that as a gift and not just part of my job as their mom.

Kacy: Nice try.

Emily: You’re not buying it, huh, Kacy? Admittedly, the psychology doesn’t really work with an indignant three-year-old. But by the time they’re 11 or 12, they really do start to get it. In the meantime, whether they get the deeper lesson or not, YOU getting those couple of hours away really is worth whatever bribe you have to lure in a sitter with.

Kacy: I DO buy it! And I try to do it whenever I can find a sucker babysitter. I meant nice try, Lisa (bless Lisa’s heart. . . )

It’s my birthday, and I’m okay with it. I really believe that age has nothing to do with a number (and everything to do with presents and treats). I think that age is all about how you think, feel, and act. Those frolicking years of youth are long gone. They’re too busy loitering at the local “Gas ‘N Go” and texting their friends to notice I’m not there.

The good news is I don’t really care. It’s not the kind of “I don’t care” that makes you cool as a teen (yes, another evidence of my aging vocabulary, I refer to the youth of today as a “teen”)–the kind that makes you pierce your nose or dye your hair purple–the kind that is secretly desperate that you will notice, but it’s the kind of “I don’t care” that forgets what’s cool because its too busy thinking about what kind of soup to have for dinner at 5 o’clock.

First example: It was my father’s birthday last week and I suggested we go to Chuck-a-rama for lunch. Why? Everyone knows that only old people like Chuck-a-rama. This point was really solidified as I pulled up and saw two walkers and a wheelchair roll on in the front door. That’s not a joke. It’s like someone placed them there to prove a point. My father loves eating there, but the truth is I secretly do, too. It’s good, hot food, and the restaurant is clean. Seriously, the place is immaculate. Our waitress filled our drinks and spoke slowly and softly. The medium age there was 75. I had a great time.

Second example: My mom took me shopping for my birthday. We went to Forever 21, and I complained, out-loud, that the music was way too loud, and eventually left because everything was too trendy, or I couldn’t figure out how to put some of the shirts on (front? back?), or the pants were too low-rise, and I don’t have the patience for any of that. If wearing pants that actually goes to my waist make me old, then I’m okay with that. We ended up at Chico’s, and I found an outfit that I really like. Again, a place for the seasoned woman, but I liked the outfit she bought me. A lot.

Mother nature’s sick, twisted joke is that I’ve broken out this week worse than I ever did as a teenager. I have oily skin and the beginning of crow’s feet. But I really don’t care (I wonder if I should have the tomato bisque or the french onion?) I don’t think this is an issue of cool/uncool. I’m convinced it’s an issue of young/old. Let’s face it: I dress and eat well for an old person.

(Do you think I’m young or old?)

Kacy: Happy Birthday! I thought we could meet at Gas-N-Go later? Haha! Seriously. What time? Text me.

Emily: You’ve had a birthday: shout hooray! I hate to disillusion you, but you have to be way older than you are now to feel old. If you DO text Kacy, that will be exhibit 1 for your continued youth.

Kristy:  For your birthday I got you this confession:  The last time my mother-in-law was visiting, we went clothes shopping at the same store and (are you ready?  this is like the confetti part of my gift) WE BOUGHT THE SAME SHIRT. 

I have to admit that, although intellectually I consider myself to be fairly immune to the hyperbolic claims of most advertising, emotionally I sometimes sucker for it.  So when I started coloring my gray hair, for instance, I already had the notion, conceived and nurtured through the years, that Preference by L’Oreal would be the best because the women in the commercial viewed it as a “splurge.” Duh. I know. But that’s what I use.

The real power of the “because I’m worth it” notion was driven home to me recently, though, when my husband and I were in Pier 1 looking for some new plates to use for company now that we have added on to our house and can actually accommodate more than the eight people we have been wont to serve on our 30-year-old Corelle. While we were looking around, I fell in love with this blown-glass candy dish. It was elegant. It was simple. I was just looking at the price on the bottom when Larry came by.

“Whatcha got?”

“Oh, it’s just this little dish.” (By now I had seen that it was $15.99.)

“Pretty,” he said. “Why don’t you get it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe sometime. Or you could get it for me for Mother’s Day or something.”

“Just get it,” he invited.

No, I said to myself, I can resist the $16; I’m sure the urge will pass.  And I put the dish back on the shelf.

Fifteen minutes later, as we were approaching the checkout, I stopped and checked my assumptions. Why did I not buy the candy dish? If my married daughter had been with me and admired that dish, I would have bought it for her in a heartbeat, out of love for her, just because I knew she liked it and it would give me joy to see her have it. Why could I not value myself that much?

A mother sacrifices for her children. That’s part of the job. But I had fallen so far into such habits that setting aside my own wants had become a knee-jerk response. I had forgotten that it wasn’t universally necessary to deprive myself at every turn.

I marched right back to the shelf and got that candy dish, and every time I use it I feel a lift in my heart. Because I’m worth it.

Lisa says:  Now fill that candy jar with your trail mix!