I have never been a slave to fashion, but I have considered
myself fashionable. I have never been a
shop-a-holic, but not because I did not want to buy things, but because I was
too cheap to buy them. In addition, I
have never been a clotheshorse but I love new clothes – brand new and new to
me. Therefore, I love hand-me-downs, for
myself and for my children.
Hand-me-downs free me from all the stress, guilt and financial responsibility of
acquiring the clothes and maintaining them.
Hand-me-downs allow me to sit at home and wait for the fashions to come
to me. I do not have to spend gas and
time driving to multiple stores to look at and try on clothes, only to be
frustrated with either the fit or the price tag or both. As a stay-at-home mother of three children, I
have found little time to peruse racks and rounders for the perfect
outfit. I tried going to Old Navy to buy
a pair of jeans when my youngest was still in a car carrier. The largest fitting room they had was still
not roomy enough for me, my 5-year-old son, 2-year-old daughter, a 5-in-one stroller
system and three pairs of jeans. I left
with the same clothes I wore in, vowing never again to clothes shop for myself
with three children in tow. I would
rather take three kids to the dentist on the same day than attempt to try on
clothes with children peeking under the sides of the changing stall and
threatening to open the door and wait for me outside. There is no outfit sized perfectly to fit
with a clearance or sale sticker large enough to get me to do it again.
When my sister shows up at my house with a bag of clothes, I
am as excited as if there were gold in those bags. For me it is a golden opportunity to add to
my wardrobe without the hassle of travel time and store associates asking if I
need another size. Why not offer me a
new mirror? One that only shows my face,
not how large my ass has gotten. Why
don’t they offer me better lighting instead of the harsh fluorescents that show
me every wrinkle and freckle that I have managed to avoid in the soft GE “True”
Reveal lighting I use in my bathroom?
My bedroom is the perfect dressing room with the light I like,
the accessories I need to determine if the new article truly will go with “that,”
and no intrusions on a solitary modeling experience. If it fits, it goes directly on a hanger and
into the closet. No biting at plastic fasteners
to remove tags. No worries about whether
it will shrink the first time I wash it – it has already been washed. AND NO GUILT. I did not spend a dime and I increased my wardrobe options for dinner
out with family or friends.With clothes from my sister, I also get the bonus of name-brand clothing. It is way better than Marshall’s or TJ Maxx! Remember: I am cheap. Even when I have the opportunity to shop, sans children, I rarely buy the good stuff because I want to make my dollar go as far as possible. I would rather come home with three or four middle-of-the-road quality items, than one expensive one.
As much as I do not enjoy shopping for myself with three children in tow, I dread even more shopping for one of them. Inevitably, because of either finances or time, I am always shopping for just one child and not all three. Whoever’s turn it is to be in the spotlight always wants more than I can afford, and as they get older I discover they truly do have their own sense of style and are increasingly drawn to fashions that I do not approve. (I want to blame someone, anyone, on Disney or Nickelodeon for their influence, but in reality, the Bratz are far more inappropriate in their fashion selections. Where is Strawberry Shortcake when you need her?) The two children who are not getting new outfits or new shoes are left to roam and dream and pester me with “Why can’t I get something, too?" and “Can we go home now?” I find myself shopping for my children only when they truly need something. It takes sneakers with dog doo on the bottom, ankle-length pants turned capris, and suddenly midriff-baring tops to get me to the store to shop for them. If only there was a better way…
Enter my neighbors, friends and sister-in-law with bags of clothes from their older children. I am saved! My children are all at ages that hand-me-downs are still cool for them. They are more excited to wear Shawn, Kylie, MyKenzie, Maddie, Payton and Shannon’s clothes than they are to wear anything that came from the Gap or The Children’s Place. My children cherish clothes already worn by someone they look up to or love. It is their badge of honor, to be worn with pride, not thrown to the bottom of the closet with too small socks and unisex sweatshirts. My girls believe that the original owner specifically selected the item and “wanted” them to have it. My son simply thinks his cousin’s clothes are cool. As long as my children look forward to wearing their friends and families’ clothes, I will keep accepting those bags. When the anticipation turns to polite appreciation and finally annoyance, I will be forced to return to the mall to do my shopping. However, for now, I enjoy shopping out of bags that come to my door with no signature required.
With kids growing out of their clothes faster than they can wear them out, buyer’s remorse is challenged even more when a garment has been pushed to its limit in durability by purity: dirt. When we first moved into our home, it was only the second finished house on the street. To our left were two foundations, to our right a nearly finished home except for light fixtures and across from us the largest dirt pile you had ever seen. On Labor Day weekend, two families closed on their recently finished homes and their children joined our children outside. We watched as the kids dug at the pile in search of buried treasure. They scaled its sides to find the path of least resistance to the top. Much to our disappointment, they descended this grass-less mountain on their bottoms. Standing, they brushed the surface debris away, turned and scaled again. One mother looked at me and said, “I can’t believe she just did that in Gymboree shorts.” I thought God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt. Well, dirt hurts my kids’ clothes. Why is dirt so hard to get out? There seems to be no amount of Clorox 2 or Spray-N-Wash Stain Stick that can fully get out ground-in dirt.
Alas – I need something else to arm myself against the never-ending pursuit of clean, purchased clothes: the hand-me-down! Gymboree shorts and Lands End dresses are worn with the full intent of daring the odds and inviting the stain battle. It is not that I encourage my children to smear mud on their laps or wipe the Popsicle drips from their chins with the bottom of their shirt, but I am not as horrified when it happens. I have come to realize that my frustration with my children does NOT come from them “not listening” to my incessant demands for proper manners – it comes from their lack of attention to pro-active cleanliness. When I see them swipe the back of their sleeve across their mouth or wipe their hand on the side of their leg, I hear myself inside my head saying, “Now I have to stain stick that.” It is not my children's lack of manners that drives me to fuss; it is the dread of overly soiled laundry!
So how does all this make me a better mom? It is not because I take the money I save and
lavish my children with iPads, X-Box or a Kindle Fire HD – they have none of
these things. We do not take them on
weekend get-a-ways and we do not pay for private anything lessons. They do not go to private schools and despite
my husband’s impression of their rooms and our basement, they do NOT own all the
latest and best toys. Hand-me-downs make
me a better Mom because I am not emotionally or financially invested in the
products. I do not wince when they come
home from school with paint on their sleeves.
The hives are kept to a minimum when they splash through mud puddles and
the backs of their pants are speckled with grayish-brown dots. I am not lamenting the care I took in
selecting the theme or color of an outfit only to have its picturesque front
dappled by a Sharpie. The hand-me-down has saved me from giving my kids “the face" of silent frustration. The hand-me-down spares
my children the wrath of a tooth-clenched mother wielding a Tide-To-Go
Pen.
The hand-me-down has allowed me to “relax” in my clothes. I do not stress about what got on me and I do not stress about whether it will come out. As a mom who nursed all three of her children until they were walking, I became accustomed to chest-level spots and mishaps. The beauty of breast milk is that it does not stain like formula. Nevertheless, all children must graduate from breast to cup and from milk to chicken fingers. And those chicken fingers usually come with ketchup. For some reason my children seem to think nothing of cleansing themselves on my clothes. Whether they are patting my behind gently to tap off the orange crumbs left from Cheetos, or pressing their faces into my stomach in search of a hug, there is always a residue of them left behind.
Even my instincts to cradle them when they are sad or hurt ends in a chest full of tears, snot and anything left on the corners of their mouth from lunch. If I had spent pain-staking hours searching high and low for the perfect white “T” I would be either pushing them away and handing them a Kleenex, or cursing their little drippy bodies as I retired to the washroom…again. When that perfect (in this case green) “T”was a shirt that had already stood the test of time with another wearer, I’m not as crushed when it comes out of the washer looking only slightly less stained than the way it went in. One more try later, I resign myself to the fact that the shirt is ruined. I mentally thank Kelli for saving me the $29.99 at Ann Taylor and throw the shirt at the top of my dust-cloth pile. I have some of the most fashionable dust cloths you can image.
I am not exactly
the most put together person or pristine dresser. I am not impeccable in my appearance or my
wardrobe. I did not grow up as a prissy kid, although I
didn’t want to get sandy in the sand box – to me the sandbox was a dirty place
that belonged at the beach, and even there I didn’t want sand in my bathing
suit…or my shoes. I have always been
good about washing my hands, but in the kitchen I have learned – the hard way –
to wear an apron. So why am I so stressed about my kids being dirty? I do not know why I am such a messy-phobe.
If I transfer my obsession to my children, am I denying them
some right of passage, some divine understanding of childhood? Am I allowing them to BE children: carefree, stress-free, un-obsessed and
oblivious to the social expectations of adults longing for perfection? Am I denying myself the joy of watching my
children devour life with reckless abandon and determined consumption? If any of this is true then the hand-me-down
allows me to be frivolous and ambivalent.
They even allow me to be devilish for just a few moments when I realize
it’s O.K. to spray whip cream into their mouths, and pat floured hand-prints
onto their backs when making cookies.
Chocolate cake batter is meant to rise and set in the pan in
the oven, but it tastes better when sucked off the back of a sleeve. Art pieces are all the more masterful when
created fully clothed, and completely unsmocked. Spring days are meant to be experienced
outside, lying in the grass, or on the driveway, a Popsicle in hand. It does not matter if the shirt is from Walmart or the pants are from
Old Navy. It is O.K. It is a hand-me-down.
No comments:
Post a Comment