The joy of retail therapy with a surly mum
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MummyBloggers
Shopping used to be a pursuit of pleasure. I could have spent days meandering around clothes stores, content to wait until that one perfect piece jumped out at me - but then I got married and had children.Shopping is now an activity which must be carried out with military precision if myself and/or the kids want to make it out alive. Lists are employed, rules are implemented and good humour is suspended and replaced with steely determination until the required object, garment or foodstuff is safely within our grasp.
This repeated routine made me long for one full day of window shopping, coffee breaks and girlie chats and recently, I thought my 12-year-old daughter would be happy to help Mum fill that void in her life. I asked her to accompany me on a day of retail therapy. I thought the time had come. I thought she was ready.
Turns out neither of us were.
With the promise of no brothers and the added bonus of a new outfit, I was certain I had the whole day sewn up. Unfortunately, I neglected to remember the fact that, at times, I can be a less-than-perfect mum. Forget ‘mum’; at times I can be a less-than-perfect person.
A day which started with such promise suddenly escalated into what will now be known as The Great Topshop War of 2015. We bickered over the suitability of different clothing items, we glared at each other for no reason and we struggled to keep a civil tongue in our heads when we 'discussed' the latest trends. There was no one specific catalyst for the geyser of tears that finally erupted from my pre-teen, it was just... everything. Or maybe it was just me and my attitude.
It may have been the irrational irritation I felt and didn't try to hide when my daughter stared doe-eyed at every tartan-clad, tongue-pierced 17-year-old shop assistant in their and gushed about how cool and stylish they were.
It may have been the fact I giggled when I pulled back the fitting room curtain to reveal her desperately trying to squeeze into her first potential pair of skinny jeans; red-faced, but determined and making noises not dissimilar to those heard in maternity wards up and down the country.
Or maybe it was because I wanted her to be grown-up enough to have a civilised, girlie day out, but not grown-up enough to have her own opinion, taste and style. God, admitting that was harder than I thought. This kind of thing definitely wasn't mentioned in the baby brochure when I brought her home over a decade ago.
While I spent most of the day seething with her for acting like I was a fashion-challenged idiot who can’t tell the difference between Hermes and H&M (I can’t, but she doesn’t need to know that), she probably spent most of the day seething because her mum acted like acquiring a crop top was akin to posting a belfie online.
(I’ll be honest here. I’m still not sure what a belfie is, except I think it’s got something to do with Kim Kardashian and I know I don’t want my daughter’s name uttered in the same sentence as it.)
We didn't seem to understand one another's role that day and then a not-so-silent tug-of-war began, which culminated in an argument the likes of which Topshop has probably never seen. Struggling to contain her frustration, my distressed daughter choked out her regret at having joined me on this ‘sham of a day’. Harsh, but fair. I had essentially used her to try fill a space I missed from my pre-marriage, pre-children days and expected her to behave accordingly. Wow, Mum-of-the-Year award goes to….
“We’ll have a lovely day”, I told her, blissfully unaware the subtext to this promise read ‘As long as you wear exactly what I pick and have no personal opinion. Now, doesn’t that sound GREAT?!" How did I expect her to enjoy herself when I acted like she wasn’t actually present in any real sense.
It goes without saying I didn’t express this realisation. I might be brave enough to climb into her wardrobe to reassure her there are no monsters in there, but there was no way I was brave enough to admit that, in this case, she was right and I was wrong.
Instead, I swallowed my pride, asked her opinion on a pair of open-toed jelly platforms, which I assumed the store had placed there as a joke prop, discovered they were ‘totally awesome’ and handed over my credit card.
And this morning when I fell over the discarded shoes, I didn’t lament her untidiness or blatant disregard for her mum's dodgy knee. Instead, I lamented my selfish desire to have my one and only daughter act like an adult when I want and a child when I demand.
If beating myself up over it in the days that followed that disastrous shopping trip wasn’t sufficient punishment, having to look at those ludicrous shoes on the daily will definitely do it.
With the promise of no brothers and the added bonus of a new outfit, I was certain I had the whole day sewn up. Unfortunately, I neglected to remember the fact that, at times, I can be a less-than-perfect mum. Forget ‘mum’; at times I can be a less-than-perfect person.
A day which started with such promise suddenly escalated into what will now be known as The Great Topshop War of 2015. We bickered over the suitability of different clothing items, we glared at each other for no reason and we struggled to keep a civil tongue in our heads when we 'discussed' the latest trends. There was no one specific catalyst for the geyser of tears that finally erupted from my pre-teen, it was just... everything. Or maybe it was just me and my attitude.
It may have been the irrational irritation I felt and didn't try to hide when my daughter stared doe-eyed at every tartan-clad, tongue-pierced 17-year-old shop assistant in their and gushed about how cool and stylish they were.
It may have been the fact I giggled when I pulled back the fitting room curtain to reveal her desperately trying to squeeze into her first potential pair of skinny jeans; red-faced, but determined and making noises not dissimilar to those heard in maternity wards up and down the country.
Or maybe it was because I wanted her to be grown-up enough to have a civilised, girlie day out, but not grown-up enough to have her own opinion, taste and style. God, admitting that was harder than I thought. This kind of thing definitely wasn't mentioned in the baby brochure when I brought her home over a decade ago.
While I spent most of the day seething with her for acting like I was a fashion-challenged idiot who can’t tell the difference between Hermes and H&M (I can’t, but she doesn’t need to know that), she probably spent most of the day seething because her mum acted like acquiring a crop top was akin to posting a belfie online.
(I’ll be honest here. I’m still not sure what a belfie is, except I think it’s got something to do with Kim Kardashian and I know I don’t want my daughter’s name uttered in the same sentence as it.)
We didn't seem to understand one another's role that day and then a not-so-silent tug-of-war began, which culminated in an argument the likes of which Topshop has probably never seen. Struggling to contain her frustration, my distressed daughter choked out her regret at having joined me on this ‘sham of a day’. Harsh, but fair. I had essentially used her to try fill a space I missed from my pre-marriage, pre-children days and expected her to behave accordingly. Wow, Mum-of-the-Year award goes to….
“We’ll have a lovely day”, I told her, blissfully unaware the subtext to this promise read ‘As long as you wear exactly what I pick and have no personal opinion. Now, doesn’t that sound GREAT?!" How did I expect her to enjoy herself when I acted like she wasn’t actually present in any real sense.
It goes without saying I didn’t express this realisation. I might be brave enough to climb into her wardrobe to reassure her there are no monsters in there, but there was no way I was brave enough to admit that, in this case, she was right and I was wrong.
Instead, I swallowed my pride, asked her opinion on a pair of open-toed jelly platforms, which I assumed the store had placed there as a joke prop, discovered they were ‘totally awesome’ and handed over my credit card.
And this morning when I fell over the discarded shoes, I didn’t lament her untidiness or blatant disregard for her mum's dodgy knee. Instead, I lamented my selfish desire to have my one and only daughter act like an adult when I want and a child when I demand.
If beating myself up over it in the days that followed that disastrous shopping trip wasn’t sufficient punishment, having to look at those ludicrous shoes on the daily will definitely do it.
