So this weekend is the beginning of rodeo time in San Antonio. And I think it’s safe to say I’m pretty excited about the whole thing. Sure, some of my excitement is due to all the fun Caroline will have watching the rodeo clowns and bull-riding, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that a large portion of it is because I know I have one or seven delicious corn dogs in my near future.
With a funnel cake for dessert.
And maybe a gordita or some Texas tornado chips as an appetizer.
But even in the midst of all my culinary anticipation (ROASTED CORN ON A STICK!) I realized yesterday morning that Caroline has outgrown all her western wear. And a girl can’t be expected to go to the rodeo without a shirt with some pearl snap buttons.
It’s like a constitutional right.
I mentioned over breakfast that I might head to Cavenders and buy her a new shirt for the rodeo. And Caroline said, “Oh! I want to go with you and pick it out.”
Here’s the thing. There was a time when I was bright-eyed and optimistic (like last week) when I would have waited to pick her up from school and taken her to Cavenders with me to peruse the shirts. But I began to think about the inventory of shirts at Cavenders and how some of them are, well, how do I say this?
Tacky.
That’s right.
And I knew Caroline would inevitably fall in love with a shirt that would make Cher say “Wow. That is over the top” and also maybe ask, “Do you believe in life after love?”
(I don’t think she’d really ask if I believed in life after love. But that’s where my mind went after I said Cher and now I can’t get that song out of my head.)
I just knew that it would end up being a battle in Cavenders and, frankly, I just don’t have the strength. And I certainly don’t have the strength at 3:30 in the afternoon when I know I still have to face homework and a long soliloquy about the unfairness of life and I don’t even have the promise of a baked potato filled with cheese and butter to help me through the night.
Just the other day a friend of mine brought a few bags of clothes over that her daughter had outgrown. Caroline and I went through the bags and I told her to only keep the things she would actually wear and we could do something else with the other stuff. She began to pull things out and loved all the sweatshirts and some purple skinny jeans, but then she pulled out this darling, DARLING, striped dress and announced, “No. DEFINITELY NOT THIS.”
“Really? But it’s so cute. I would love to have a dress like that.”
And she looked right at me and said, “Mom, let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”
Okay then.
And so really I just took her words to heart when I decided to go to Cavenders by myself. I picked out four shirts that I thought she might like and ignored the ones with iridescent purple horseshoes and fringe. I made sure that I could return the shirts she didn’t want, threw in a bedazzled belt for good measure and made my way home.
You know what? She was thrilled with her new shirt. Granted, she wasn’t a fan of two out of the four I chose (PLAID? Why would I want a PLAID shirt?) , but she loved the other two and the belt that would make Liberace weep with envy is a little much but she has already declared it her FAVORITE THING EVER and wore it over her nightgown until she went to bed.
I don’t know when I’ve felt such a thrill of victory.
And I didn’t even have to take a Xanax.
(Although I would eat the heck out of a baked potato if you put one in front of me right now. Not because I’m stressed but because IT’S A POTATO.)
The thing is it’s not her fault that it’s become so hard to shop with her. She has 50% of my DNA. Which means she has to look at and overanalyze everything in the store and envision every possible combination of outfits.
And she has 50% of P’s DNA. Which translates to being hard headed and stubborn. And possessing an innate desire to wear a lot of clothing that comes from Academy.
In fact, P decided he needed new jeans and pants last Friday. So after Caroline’s basketball game we went to Old Navy. On a Saturday. To shop for P.
That’s a hat trick of misery.
I knew we were in trouble when I began handing him various types of jeans and pants to try on and he asked, “Why do I need to try all these on? Can’t we just buy what we need in my size and leave?”
It’s hard to explain the unpredictable sizing of Old Navy to someone who only shops once every three years and only then because all his jeans have “shrunk”.
Yes, because when you hit your forties, clothes tend to “shrink” at an alarming rate.
But he put his game face on and tried on all the different incarnations of Old Navy jeans. I can’t tell you how tempted I was to slip in a pair of skinny jeans just to see what he’d do, but decided there was no reason to subject everyone in the dressing room to profanity.
Finally we walked up to the cash register with two new pairs of jeans and two pairs of khaki pants. And I have never felt more certain that people have had gum surgeries that were less painful than the last thirty minutes I’d just spent sitting outside that dressing room.
Which is why I’ve pretty much decided I’m only shopping for myself from now on. The rest of these people can head to Academy without me and buy all the Magellan shirts and Nike running shorts their hearts’ desire.
Because I’m not going to make this harder than it has to be.