Organized like a fox
One morning after a good hard cry and eleven hours of sleep, I awake partially refreshed (if not somewhat achy), stumble my way to the kitchen and grumble my way through making coffee... when I realize that my oldest son has grown sixteen inches since his last semi-formal event.
What the???
Trevor was invited to a mitzvah of some kind (bar or bat... I'm really bad with the jewish nomenclature) , and said mitzvah was this morning at 10:30. Being that I was on my deathbed last night, I made the foolish assumption that his laundry was all caught up and that he was set, clotheswise.
I made this same assumption a few days before his First Holy Communion. And my grandfather's funeral. And my father's funeral. And my second son's First Holy Communion. And... you get the picture.
Trevor is now fifteen feet tall and has actual hooves. He looks like Lurch in his old dress clothes, with bare wrists extending beyond his long-sleeved dress shirt and six inches of white sock peeking out from beneath his navy trousers. But it's really the look of dread that captures it all.
Sadly, Trevor's not one to notice that his clothes don't fit. The look on his face is more related to my screams of horror and the declaration that we must go clothes shopping. NOW.
Like every mother in my situation, I bark orders the entire way to the store: We are going to the buy clothes. You stick with me. Which means RUN. We have a half hour to find something that fits.
Damn my deathbed antics last night!!
We rush into the store, only now my darling son is no longer a sweet size "ten" or "twelve," but has graduated to "mammoth," and "mammoth" sizes are located in the Men's Clothing area. It's like a foreign country over there. I wonder if my currency will even work.
Men's Clothing knows nothing of ten or twelve. It comes in mysterious sizes based on a whole different set of parameters, each article stamped with a mathematical equation on the tag: 30x30; 32x38; 102x54. And the shirts-- vast amounts of shirts and none that will ever, ever fit my lanky son. He's grown, but he's not that big.
I make a quick pass through the teen area and am instantly horrified. Everything has a distressed look: jeans with holes, suit coats with frayed edges, entire ensembles meant to be worn with flip-flops. I ask the clerk if there is anything that will fit my tween.
She laughs.
The short story is that we did it: we found something. I was gazelle-like, swift and sleek, moving about the store with intensity and purpose. If there was an olympic event for panic-shopping, I would have taken the gold.
Except that they had next to nothing in his size. Anywhere. And the sun was in my eyes. So make that a bronze.
We did find shoes for his puppy feet that, when he outgrows them, can go to his father. Hand-me-down khakis and a borrowed coat from a cousin worked well; and there was one size 16 dress shirt not only fit but was heavy enough that it wouldn't expose his nipples. (SIDE NOTE: What is it with men who don't wear undershirts? What is that? Do they just not know it's bad taste? And just plain yucky? And worse, what is it with the clothing companies that they make see-through shirts? Gah.)
Dressed in his new-ish finery Trev was ready for his friends' big event. And he looked... like Lurch. But in clothes that fit.
What the???
Trevor was invited to a mitzvah of some kind (bar or bat... I'm really bad with the jewish nomenclature) , and said mitzvah was this morning at 10:30. Being that I was on my deathbed last night, I made the foolish assumption that his laundry was all caught up and that he was set, clotheswise.
I made this same assumption a few days before his First Holy Communion. And my grandfather's funeral. And my father's funeral. And my second son's First Holy Communion. And... you get the picture.
Trevor is now fifteen feet tall and has actual hooves. He looks like Lurch in his old dress clothes, with bare wrists extending beyond his long-sleeved dress shirt and six inches of white sock peeking out from beneath his navy trousers. But it's really the look of dread that captures it all.
Sadly, Trevor's not one to notice that his clothes don't fit. The look on his face is more related to my screams of horror and the declaration that we must go clothes shopping. NOW.
Like every mother in my situation, I bark orders the entire way to the store: We are going to the buy clothes. You stick with me. Which means RUN. We have a half hour to find something that fits.
Damn my deathbed antics last night!!
We rush into the store, only now my darling son is no longer a sweet size "ten" or "twelve," but has graduated to "mammoth," and "mammoth" sizes are located in the Men's Clothing area. It's like a foreign country over there. I wonder if my currency will even work.
Men's Clothing knows nothing of ten or twelve. It comes in mysterious sizes based on a whole different set of parameters, each article stamped with a mathematical equation on the tag: 30x30; 32x38; 102x54. And the shirts-- vast amounts of shirts and none that will ever, ever fit my lanky son. He's grown, but he's not that big.
I make a quick pass through the teen area and am instantly horrified. Everything has a distressed look: jeans with holes, suit coats with frayed edges, entire ensembles meant to be worn with flip-flops. I ask the clerk if there is anything that will fit my tween.
She laughs.
The short story is that we did it: we found something. I was gazelle-like, swift and sleek, moving about the store with intensity and purpose. If there was an olympic event for panic-shopping, I would have taken the gold.
Except that they had next to nothing in his size. Anywhere. And the sun was in my eyes. So make that a bronze.
We did find shoes for his puppy feet that, when he outgrows them, can go to his father. Hand-me-down khakis and a borrowed coat from a cousin worked well; and there was one size 16 dress shirt not only fit but was heavy enough that it wouldn't expose his nipples. (SIDE NOTE: What is it with men who don't wear undershirts? What is that? Do they just not know it's bad taste? And just plain yucky? And worse, what is it with the clothing companies that they make see-through shirts? Gah.)
Dressed in his new-ish finery Trev was ready for his friends' big event. And he looked... like Lurch. But in clothes that fit.
posted by @traciAWESOME
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