Torture by Shopping

Now that the weather is getting cooler, it is time for a dreaded ritual in my household: clothes shopping.  Over the summer, I had noticed that the food consumption in our household was increasing at a rapid rate, and the Son of Never Stops Eating was getting taller by the minute. In the back of my mind, I knew what was coming, but this weekend it was confirmed. It was time to buy him clothing that actually fit.

I hate shopping for clothes.  If I was given a choice between (a) a root canal; (b) an entire day spent watching political ads; or (c), going shopping for clothing, it would honestly be a difficult choice.  Add to that dislike one teenage boy who has sensory issues, is not shy about expressing his opinions, and who happens to be tall and skinny, and what is left is a challenge worthy of NASA's best.

In my dream world of the future, every home would come with a cylinder that you step in, say "I need new clothes!" and the cylinder would measure you, access your brain to sense what kind of styles and fabrics you had in mind, a fantastic laser show would ensue,  and at the end you would be provided a new wardrobe at a reasonable price without ever actually having to go anywhere or talk to anyone.   This same cylinder would also tastefully decorate your home and help your children with craft projects, which also happen to be two other activities the Mom of No does not excel at.

The Son of Never Stops Eating and I  proceeded to a clothing store, and I quickly realized that my long held assumption that it's always easy for men to buy clothes was wrong, at least in this circumstance.  If it fit in the waist, it was too short.  If it was long enough, it was too big in the waist.  To add to the fun and excitement, he was telling anyone who happened by that he would much rather be shopping for Legos, and that he had a mean mother.

After he tried on two pairs of pants, he announced he was done.

You're not done, I told him.  We just got started.  Although, to be honest, I was also done.

I just want to wear my old clothes, he told me, exasperated.  These clothes are all itchy.  I just want to wear shorts all the time.

Those clothes don't fit you anymore, I responded. I even tried the Mom Guilt technique:  People will think I am a bad mother, I told him.  You can't wear shorts outside when it's freezing.  They'll see you walking home from school and think, what kind of mother lets her son outside when it's twenty degrees outside?

He proved to be impervious to the Mom Guilt.  Mom, he told me, boys wear shorts all the time.  We don't care if it's cold.  Shorts are better than pants.

Get back in there, I told him.  The sooner you start, the sooner you finish.

He rolled his eyes at me, expelled his breath in a giant sigh, threw his hands up above his head, and went back into the dressing room, where he quickly rejected every remaining pair of pants. I picked everything up, hung it up, and we left, defeated.

So, from this experience, three takeaways:

1.  Shopping with teenage boys can be as frustrating as shopping with teenage girls.
2.  If you see a very tall kid walking home from school wearing a coat and shorts, I tried.
3.  Maybe it's time to delegate shopping to the Dad of No.  Why should I get to have all the fun?