It’s a strange reality to be faced with. I am no longer “cool,” and I don’t know cool shoes from dorky ones. That’s what I learned today when I took my children out to buy school clothes.
Now first of all, let me say that buying school clothes for six children is no small feat. I had to take them out in shifts, making sure that at least one of the older ones was home to watch some of the younger ones. Then I had to travel to various stores while battling begs, pleads, and outright irrational requests for impractical things. “MOM, this is sooo cute! Oh please can I have it? Look, it matches this skirt.” And, “Mom, I need new shoes. The ones you bought me a few months ago are already worn out. Besides, everybody has already seen me in those.” “Those are SO last year.” “How come he gets four pairs of jeans and I get two?” Meanwhile, I’m loading the cart and trying to do mental math. It’s rather important that I do this without going broke.
No Longer Cool…
I knew that I had become an uncool mom when my oldest son chose to walk ten paces behind me in the mall. He assured me that it wasn’t me, exactly, but the fact that it’s no longer socially acceptable for fifteen-year-old guys like him to be seen at the mall with their mothers. So I casually strolled along, occasionally checking to see whether he was still following. I tried glancing back in the reflection of the store windows rather than blow his cover by turning my head. I’m trying to support his need for detachment. Is there such a thing as the opposite of separation anxiety?
The Cool Consultant
When we got into the shoe store, I decided his coolness would come in handy. His younger brother Kyle was with me, and between Kyle’s autism and my uncoolness we needed a little help choosing shoes. Kyle wanted shoes without laces. He lives for simplicity and order. Shoes with laces are anything but simple and orderly. When Kyle was younger, there were many varieties of Velcro shoes or slip-ons sneakers for him to choose from. Yet now his feet are big enough, at thirteen, that most of the shoes have laces. Desperate to avoid laces, Kyle chose some black slip-on sneakers that looked a little peculiar. At least I thought so, but I needed my cool consultant. “Are these shoes cool?” I asked. They certainly were not.
“Alright,” I said. “Pick the coolest shoes in his size. Ones you would wear,” I suggested.
“Yes, but they’ll have laces,” said my cool consultant.
“We’ll get him past the laces thing,” I said. “I don’t want anyone making fun of his shoes.” My cool consultant okayed a blue pair with blue laces. I spent the next few minutes explaining to Kyle that these are the kind of shoes kids wear in ninth grade. Kyle listened intently. The way his mind works, if you can convince him that this is some sort of strange universal rule, he will eventually accept it. He finally did, and willingly put on the shoes.
We drove home, content. Everybody had clothes and shoes for school. And somehow I had narrowly avoided bankruptcy. For today anyway. Tomorrow I will have to worry about school lunch fees for six kids. Yikes.
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