I just went shopping with my nine-year-old, who was in desperate need of shorts, capris, new shoes...you name it. We have so far avoided the Name Brand Bugaboo, which consists of "If it doesn't come from ____________ (Limited II, The Gap, J Crew, whatever), I won't wear it." She's still happy with our local French boutique, Target (the "g" is soft and the "t" is silent). This kid, however, has zero idea of what size she is. We don't have body image problems because we have no body image. Zip. Nada. None. She picks up an extra small (this is a kid who was 95th percentile in height and weight from the day she was born and has continued this trend ever since). "Not gonna fit," I say. "Oh, MAN," she whines. I look for things with the purple tags, which are Extra Large. (Next year, we'll be in the teen department, a prospect I find dreadful). "This might," I say. "As IF," she says, in her best Alicia Silverstone imitation. I sigh. We move on. Somehow, I keep spotting things that would be extraordinarily cute on my five-year-old (who does not need clothes right now), but finding things for her big sister is a problem. Eventually we settle on a sun dress, two skirts (shorts attached underneath, otherwise they'd be illegal), two shirts, one pair of capris and a pair of sneakers. This, plus one or two things for her little sister, two birthday presents, assorted birthday cards and wrapping paper, pretty much fills up the cart. "Guess how much we spent," I say to my daughter. She squints. "$115," she says, an estimate which surprises me because it's actually in the ballpark. I guess $125, tops. We're both wrong: it's $167. Jesus H. Christ on a raft, as my irreverent Southern friends would say....
Then, in the parking lot, she runs the shopping cart over my left heel. It hurts like hell. She's in tears; it's horrible to be such a klutz and to see your mother writhing in pain and know you've caused it...so in addition to nursing my injured foot, I have to comfort her, too. Even so, we almost manage to make it home without a meltdown, until: "I made an 85 on my math test, Mom," she says. "That's great," I say. "I bet next time you can get it over 90." This, it turns out, is the exact wrong thing to say. There are sobs. Tears. Wails. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE HAPPY FOR ME???" she moans. "Do you want me to patronize you?" I ask, but it's no use; she's past reason now. I sigh. We pull into the driveway. She runs into the house, the picture of despair. I am left to haul out her new clothes and limp inside. Someday, I'll remember this fondly. I think.