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Shopping with Children

Once upon a time there were three little children. By and large, dressing them was a joyful thing. At moment's notice, their mother could turn the boys into baby Rothschilds, the girl into a shipping heiress, or even a Kennedy. In those early days of motherhood, I used to take a lot of photographs for the scrapbook. Now I flip through the scrapbook sometimes to remind myself that "those were the days."

The eldest son was the first to establish his individuality: sleeveless army jackets, kneecap bandannas and a pierced ear hidden under a lengthening style. Then youngest son discovered dirt. He formed a club, still active, called "The All Dirt Association." To quarry, one had to roll in the mud.

Fortunately, the little girl grows increasingly more tasteful and immaculate. She will get up at 5:30 A. M. to make sure she has enough time to wash and curl her hair so that it bounces properly on her shoulders when she goes off to school, and she screams as if bitten by an adder if a drop of spaghetti sauce lands on her clothes. The entire house is thrown into an uproar while she races for the Clorox bottle. This is a family of extremists, and nobody dresses for the kind of success I had in mind.

Time will tell what happens to these children. Who can say whether my son the dirt bomb will wind up swing buttons on a seersucker sports jacket, or my daughter the Southamptonian will discover the joys of thrift-shop browsing. They are still evolving toward personal statements that are, at this writing, incomplete.

In the meantime, however, they must be dressed, which means taking them to stores where clothing for their growing bodies can be purchased. Shopping with children is exactly as awful as shopping with parents. But if the experience is to be survived there are certain rules all adults must follow. (If you are a child, you may not read any further. This is for your parents, who will deal with you very harshly if you read one more word!)

RULE I: Never shop with more than one child at a time. This rule is closely related to another rule — never raise more than one child at a time. If you understand the second rule, there is no need to elaborate upon the first.

RULE II: Dress very nicely yourself. After the age of nine, children do not like to be seen with their mothers in public. You are a blot upon their reputation, a shadow they want to shake. I myself, always insisted that my mother walk ten paces behind me, take separate elevators and escalators and speak only when spoken to-which brings me to the next rule.

RULE III: Do not make any sudden gestures, loud noises or heart-felt exclamations such as "How adorable you look in that!" or "Twenty-nine ninety-five! Are you kidding? For a shirt?" Children are terribly embarrassed by our eccentricities, and it goes without saying that you must never buy their articles of "intimate apparel" in their presence. Children, until enough sleazy adults teach them that is old-fashioned, are very modest creatures. One time I ran out of the store and took the bus home by myself after my mother asked a salesclerk where the "underpants" counter was. Everyone in the store heard her. I had no choice.

RULE IV: Know your child's limits. If he can be coerced into a department store, coaxed into telling you that he wouldn't mind wearing this shirt or that pair of pants, don't insist that he go the whole distance — i.e., don't force him to try them on. Keep the sales slips; if something doesn't fit when he tries it on at home, return it. If he cannot be made to enter the store at all, say, "Fine. When you run out of clothes, wear your sister's." Children who won't go shopping at all save their parents a lot of time.

RULE V: Know your own limits. Do not be dragged to every sneaker store in the metropolitan area to find the exact shoes your child has in mind. Announce: "We're going to Sears — and Sears only — unless you want to wait for six more weeks, which is the next time I am free." Some children, with nothing but time and a passion to improve their image, will cheerfully go to three stores they know about and six more they don't, without blinking an eye.

RULE VI: Keep your hand on your checkbook. This is a very hard rule to follow if you are not strong-minded. Children can accuse you of running their lives because you do not genuflect the entire line of Ocean Pacific sportswear, and girls have a way of filling you with guilt by telling you that every other girl in their confirmation class is going to be wearing Capezio sandals and if you want to make her look funny in front of the bishop she will never forgive you as long as she lives.

RULE VII: Keep on top of the laundry. Or, if you can't keep on top of the laundry, remember that the wardrobe your son or daughter wants is probably lying in the bottom of a hamper waiting to be retrieved. When packing a trunk for camp or school, insist that everything the child owns be washed (preferably by him or her), folded and ready to be inventoried before you go to the store to fill in the gaps. Your children will hate you for enforcing this rule, but remember that true love is strong.

RULE VIII: Avoid designer clothes. Shut your eyes to labels. Do not be intimidated by the "fact" that your daughter cannot go to the movies without swinging a Bermuda Bag, or that your son will not be able to concentrate in the library without Topsiers on his feet. Tell your children that the best thing about Gloria Vanderbilt is her bank account, fattened by socially insecure people which, thank God, they are not!

Having laid down the rules, it is important to refresh the adult's memory with "remembrances of things past." I have never met a child who did not remind me of how difficult it is to present a confident face to the world. Clothing is only the top blank shielding them from the elements, and children need all the protective covering they can get.

As a child, I knew in an inarticulate way that I stood a better chance of surviving a windstorm in a circle of trees. My aim was to be the tree in the middle, identical and interchangeable with every other sapling in the grove. How I dressed had everything to do with feeling socially acceptable and when I inadvertently slipped into an individualism I could not back up with sustained confidence, I would try to think what I could do to regain my place in the grove. It seemed to me that social success depended on having at least one of three commodities: a fabulous personality, fame, or a yellow Pandora sweater. These were the building blocks upon which one could stand.

A fabulous personality was beyond my power to sustain on a daily basis. Fame. Like lightning, seemed to strike other people, none of whom I even knew. But a yellow Pandora sweater could be purchased at Macy's, if only my mother would understand cosmic importance. Fortunately, she did.

For several days, or as long as it took for the sweater cuffs to lose their elasticity, I faced the world feeling buttoned up, yellow and self-confident-almost as Susan Figel, who had a whole drawerful of Pandora sweaters in different shades to match her moods.

Unfortunately, I remember that yellow Pandora sweater a little too vividly. When I am shopping with my children, empathy continually blows me off course in the aisles. On the one hand, nobody wants her child to look funny in front in front of the bishop. On the other, it has yet to occur to my children that the bishop in full regalia looks pretty funny himself.

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