So, the shortest summer in history draws to a close,
and it is time again for back-to-school shopping.
As a mother of four daughters, I assumed this would be an easy task.
Girls love to shop, right? Wrong.
Whoever thinks this has not met my 13 year old daughter.
My daughter, Paige, is the reason online shopping was invented.
She hates being in crowds, and trying things on.
She does not want to see one person she knows, and spends the entire time loudly critiquing everything she sees in a store.
“Who would WEAR that?!”
She would make their buyers shudder.
She never even liked playing dress-up as a kid. At her school’s 100th day of school when they were all supposed to come dressed up as 100 year olds, she refused, and we compromised by her allowing me to at the very least make her a name tag that said she was an “Elder Care Worker.”
Always outside the box. Always an individual.
She’d rather be at home in her corner of the couch we call her “Nest,” playing video games, and shrieking nonsensical Tik Tok phrases at her friends on a group FaceTime, judging by history.
The very mention of the mall takes gearing up to when it comes to her.
To bring it up, we use the “Sandwich method:”
Tell her one thing she likes, throw that we need to shop in the middle, follow it up with another thing that will help soothe her.
I have to make sure she’s fed, and sitting down.
We need a strategy.
I’ve been known to pull out a white-board.
The night before I was to take her, she laid in bed staring at the ceiling with the covers pulled under her chin, looking positively sickly and Victorian.
I didn’t even need to ask her what she was looking like that for.
I knew it was picturing having to be in a fitting room with me feeling the waist of her jeans she was zoning out on.
I knew this because I’ve been 13 before in a fitting room.
Therefore, I told her to just make a list of four things she knew she liked, and wanted, and we would get in and get out as quickly with them as if we were conducting a heist;
Escape car running and waiting.
Somehow, thinking about shopping with the same methods of a 50 year old man was the first time I had seen her eyes light up all weekend.
I made a mental note to kind of “Stepford Wife” my own way through it.
In order to not rock an already leaky boat, I would need to hardly talk, have a perma-smile, and possibly practice the curtsey of a humble maid-servant.
The night before, I bobbed and weaved in front of the mirror Rocky style, trying to get my own self jazzed for what I knew would be my next day’s mission:
No sudden moves. Don’t act too happy or eager if something is cute. Don’t make a single suggestion. She will buck it.
Bring her snacks, and buy her some $12 boba.
Say, “Whatever makes you happiest, Honey,” a lot.
Possibly buy myself some sympathy flowers after.
There is no alternative to this kind of plan for us;
No just giving in and letting her skip shopping altogether.
Experience says that route would lead to an even more intense panic the first day of school when she suddenly realizes she should have at least planned for SOMETHING.
The morning of shopping came, and it went pretty well, with the exception of any time that involved an actual fitting room, or talking about the clothing.
I felt jumpy hearing the door click locked behind me in them the same way a person does in a horror movie when they suddenly find themselves half way down the stairs of a dark basement.
She wanted me to whisper everything, lest, I guess, any person around would know that she wore clothes or had a mother.
There are three things a 13 year old doesn’t want anyone to know:
*That they own a coat,
*Their middle name,
and
*That they have loving parents.
This resulted in her hiss whispering to me the whole time, trying to head me off, for fear I’d slip and mention something on her list of no-mentions.
ME: “Here. Do you want me to tighten the…”
HER: “MOM! SHHHHHHHH. Stop talking about that so loud!”
ME: “Those look good on you!”
HER: “Mom. No. I would rather die than wear them.”
ME: “Do you feel like that covers your….”
HER: “SHHHHHHHHHH. DO NOT EVEN SAY IT.”
Once we actually had some success, and I was checking out and chatting with the cashier,
(a welcome friendly face) she stood behind me, still whispering in my ear like a depressing parrot.
“WHY are you being so talkative with her?! What are you doing?! You’re being like DAD.
Next thing you know, you’ll be calling her by her first name like he does!”
It makes it really hard to work a pin pad to make a purchase with a Parrot of Doom on your shoulder cawing like that, but she apologized once I tossed a Dutch Bros drink her way.
I have found that is one way to exorcise them.
Yes – The key to back-to-school shopping with a middle schooler is to just ride the waves as if you are a surfer.
The key was to recognize that a snappy, stressed out, roasting attitude comes standard when you’re feeling all those hormones, and have all that back-to-school adrenaline that you do in the 8th grade, as the stresses and anxieties swirl around you.
I remember being her age, and I remember just wanting SOMETHING to feel easy for me,
and I remember that it didn’t.
I still want that at 48, actually, .
As a matter of fact, I wish someone would throw ME a boba.
So, I put up with it, knowing it’s not personal.
Thirteen is just the age for unhinged, eye-bulging behavior.
She is right on track. This, too, shall pass.
I only have roughly 3 more years of it before she starts to become more human.
I knew we were cool with each other still when I tried on a hoodie beside her and she told me I “ate” in it.
Once we got in the car to head towards home, she slumped in her seat, clearly relieved it was over.
“That wasn’t SO bad, right?” she said, side-eyeing me, knowing full-well.
“Whatever you say, Honey.”
*dressing the battle wounds*
“Anything for you. You know I love you.”
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
