I know that my approval of any piece of clothing is the kiss of death—so I try to show no expression when The Beast is making her choices in the dressing room. I try not to encourage her one way or another. I am like a character from the Body Snatcher after my body had has been snatched. I watch and hold my breath, my eyes glaze over—I have only veto power for clothes that look too sexy or that are too expensive.
Of course, I put my mother through the same torture. My only regret is that my mother is not here to witness my pain. She would take SUCH joy in hearing my mall stories. Of course she had several years of my parenting woes to enjoy before she died. She would call up and say like a child eager at story-time—“tell me! Tell me! What did The Beast do today?”
And I would tell her…so many stories I had to entertain my mother with “oh—today, when we were out in public, she would not talk—she would only beep—I am sure it is just a matter of time before special services shows up” Or “She told the whole pre-school how we lost her at IKEA...NOT because SHE wandered off—but because we did—it is so important to confirm with the spouse who is watching the child.” Or “The school had ANOTHER draw your family project and guess what we were happily guzzling in the picture—who could have known that a three year old could draw wine glasses so well.”
Well…I just picked up a bunch of clothes for The Beast from “Santa Claus”—clothes that I would not necessarily buy, but she would. Perhaps she will accept them from a mythical being.