Pics are all from the historical files, showing some of the tamer fashion statements the Cockrofts have modeled over the years. There is one guy here who is not a Cockroft but is part of my family. Can you suss the dude out? Hint: he's not wearing make-up. The man wearing make-up IS a Cockroft.
Well, folks, we took the man shopping.
As you might remember in "Bad Button Philosophy" (scroll down for the down-low), we last left our hero Martin in desperate need of cargo pants.
So a week ago, we tried Kohl's. I told Martin to go browsing and I'd take the kids so he could look in peace. Am I totally the spouse of the year? Heh, heh. We walked down the gleaming aisles, full of well-dressed, preoccupied people. Kohls, enchanted place: the smell of perfume and new clothes, posters of buff dudes in jeans and perky women in corresponding perky clothes seemingly comfortable with their own perkiness. We the Cockroft girls: a motley assembly. Merry had two shades of green on (I had encouraged her to go with a different color on bottom but Martin said Really? I kind of like it, so I was voted down--so, two shades of non-matching greens and blue and pink striped socks with pink-and-leather shoes. Sometimes socks don't matter, but these socks were the kind of socks that yelled: HEY! WHATZUP, MAN! WE ARE SOME LOUD FOOTWEAR AND WE LOOOVE IT. JOIN THE STRIPED PARTAY! BYOB!
I really try to stick to my values: if you are neat and tidy, clothes shouldn't matter. My internal counsel: If the kids want to dress themselves, honor their self-expression and show of independence. Go with it. Don't make what isn't a big deal into a big deal! There are many times I've been tempted to go back on this philosophy, to MAKE a big deal out of a little deal, to put a paper bag over my head as I walk beside certain outfits on my daughters. I've been through the fashion fire: Merry's bag lady outfits (layers of sweaters, big socks, three or four patterns together, topped by a bonnet and finished off by big, brown shoes; Elspeth's ridiculously fancy party dresses or little tutus. . .you name it, I've swallowed whatever pride I have left and gone out with these children, though I must say, during the course of a day, I usually inject this seemingly off-hand comment into a conversation: "[Insert daughter's name here] dressed herself today!"
I know it's silly. After all, I am the thrift store queen. I am the super-excited kid because I get to explore the "we-keep-this-special-room-for-missionary-kids" with a garbage sack to fill with treasured hand-me-downs. I never bought myself a stitch of clothing until I went back to the US in college where I'd go through piles of clothes the other college girls discarded at the end of the year. I'm proud to say it: I like recycling clothes. It makes economic, spiritual, and personal sense to me. I've always liked clothes and looking nice but I've never been one to spurn a cast-off. I hate shopping for certain things: jeans and bras are the pits. I never even knew my own bra-size (I'm not sure I could tell you now, as a matter of fact) since my dad did all the shopping for my 'brassieres,' as he called them, on his frequent trips back to good old America. When an bridal store employee was helping me try on wedding dresses, she asked me my bra size and I had to admit I had no idea what it was.
But those socks of Merry's--well, they were like our old rusty Honda. A fabulous car in the middle of hippie-town, Montana, but in Houston? Well, it looked a little out of place. I hadn't cared a whit about the car as long as it ran but during a year in Houston I started to become increasingly aware of its shabbiness. An ugly side to myself, I must admit: the side that, contrary to every belief I hold dear, actually cares what perfect strangers think! And shiny department stores and malls and all those places filled with such perfect treats make me want things I never knew I wanted. Ah hah! Ralph Lauren striped bedspreads! This could make my life oh, so much better! Bright bowls painted with Mexican-inspired patterns! Ice-cream would taste so much better out of that festive dish. Sparkling kitchen tools I never knew existed. Scented candles in endless molds and jars, untouched rugs stacked in perfect symmetry and dazzling hues--MINE could be the FIRST FEET on that there rug! I am now trembling with desire to buy those flower/stripe/solid socks. Are you with me? Are you?
Well, if you know what I mean, I have the cure: SHOPPING WITH CHILDREN. They will make you imminently practical and quickly convince you that you never want to be in a store again. Take, for example, the trip to Kohl's and my generous offer to Martin. Everything was fine while we were browsing the smallish toy section: obnoxious plastic things that make loud noises. Princess books. Barbies in clear plastic sheaths. Fine, fine, fine. No, honey, these things live here. Put it on your Christmas list! Save your money! Etc. Etc.
And then I made the fatal error--I headed to women's clothing to look over the clearance rack. Accompanied, remember, by Merry in her loud socks, Elspeth cloaked in energy, and Bea, for whom the novelty of the shopping cart seat and the obnoxious talking book I'd snagged had WORN OFF.
I cannot tell you exactly what happened in those moments as I put my hands on the 60%Off rack. Impressions include: children in and out of clothing, maniac giggling, my own temperature rising, possible and probable arguing and accusations, and to top it all off, a colossal WHACK to my left shoulder from the lethal edge of the clothing racks. Then there was a woman disgracing herself, smashing small female children back into the shopping cart, and plowing down the aisles like a speed-demon, Sock-girl trailing behind.
We left the air-conditioning and emerged from the swinging doors, bruised, baffled, and oh-so-happy to be leaving the bright lights of Kohl's behind. As I strapped the children into our disheveled, scratched, dirty, full-of-miscellaneous-junk, beloved car, I said to myself like a mantra, "the life of the mind!"
Give me books. Give me writing. Give me music. Save me, save me, from shopping malls.
And what did we score from this experience? Two puzzles. One shirt for Martin, on sale, brown stripe. It looks good on him. I gained a sore shoulder and a renewed commitment to scholarship. All in all, a profitable shopping trip.
PS. For those of you who are aware that I took the girls back-to-school shopping this Saturday, let me tell you: it was delightful. Tiring but delightful. Martin took the two little ones while Merry, her friend, C, and I hit the changing rooms at the outlet malls. I was pleased with the outcome. Martin, on the other hand, was so sweaty from charging around after Elspea and Bea at the outdoor mall that he and I could barely stand to smell him that night. Martin gained: one pair of corduroy pants from GAP. On sale. Tell me, is it worth it? Or should we all be wearing standard-issue burlap sacks?
