Why do I dread back to school shopping? It is pretty simple, really. I love my kid. I kinda love shopping. I do not love shopping WITH my kid. Grace and I have varied ideas of shopping. I'm a cheapskate that enters a store focused, with a list, hoping to leave with some bargains. Grace, having precious little concept of time or money, enters hoping to leave with, well, everything. When Grace goes shopping her normal inclination is to show as much restraint as Donald Trump without a Teleprompter. She wants every granola bar/stuffed animal/sparkly sandals/bottle of Gatorade we walk past. I reel her in reminding her of the difference between needs and wants, while simultaneously now really wanting one of those damn granola bars I just made her put back on the shelf. Usually, Amanda - Wife, Mother, Master Negotiator- is present to serve as a buffer. This year, because I'm an idiot, I donned my red, white, and blue leather jumpsuit and Evil Knievel-ed the shit out of back to school shopping while Amanda was out of town. Grace and I didn't exactly crash at the bottom of the Snake River Canyon, but it was exhausting nonetheless.
Maybe it was exhausting because we have hit those dog days of summer when parental patience runs thin. Grace and I have done a ton of fun stuff this Summer, but two months of playing cruise director and head counselor at Camp Dad has left me tired, my creativity tapped.
"Attention Campers- Today's activities include: whatever you come up with. You'll find the television remote and a box of Ritz crackers in the center of the living room floor. See you in September!"
Beleaguered, weary from motivating summer reading, traversing highways, and finding sand everywhere, we parents stumble towards the finish line. Eager for school to start, yet knowing we have this one more task to complete before Day One.
For our family, school shopping has two parts: uniforms and supplies. I guess I should be thankful that Grace wears uniforms. Otherwise, with her indecision and unlimited options, I would never make it out of the clothing store. Even with fewer choices, there are still sizes, colors, styles and prices to navigate. Shorts or skirts? Long sleeve or short? Light blue or dark? Even though we I devised a game plan, Grace would happily pick one of each and duplicates for good measure.
Game Plan?
Damn right, there is a game plan. How are you going to know what you need if you haven't done a proper prior assessment? Before heading out, I made Grace try on every piece of uniform from last year to see what is salvageable from first grade. If an article of clothing wasn't stained or too small we didn't need to replace it. (Note to self: Make her buy all navy blue so stains don't show.) I'm not saying I made a chart of all her uniforms, but if you don't go into that store informed you are going to be overmatched. I don't have all day to wrestle stacks of khaki pants.
Part Two is where Grace and I really butted heads. For weeks, every time we walked through Walmart or Target, Grace would beg me to pick out school supplies. Those giant bins of notebooks in the aisle called to her with a siren song. She asked to look at back packs in each store we walked through. And, of course, you need cute, dangly things to clip to your back pack. The buying of the supplies truly does irk me. I don't mind buying sanitizer or tissues for the classroom, but why does Grace need a brand new box of crayons when we have a basket of 643 broken (but usable) ones at home? Why a specific set of blue folders? Blue shirts. Blue folders. Is she going to school in a mushroom? Watching Grace select her supplies makes the task more tedious. She stands contemplating the wall of supplies as if she were examining a work of art in a museum. Looking over the details of each white board marker as if her life depended on selecting the correct one. I've seen her make faster selections at a boardwalk arcade prize counter. (Where I usually pray we have enough tickets to purchase a recliner in which I can relax while she leisurely spends her remaining tickets.) Each item becomes a negotiating point. She requests a six-pack of glue sticks; I counter with two. She picks up a new pencil case; not when she has three at home. She asks to buy the $7 markers; I say yes, as long as, this week, she uses the toilet paper that your hand pokes through when you wipe. I'm kidding. Sort of. Back and forth we spar until I want to simply hand her my debit card and go wait in the car. Finally, we make it to the car armed with all we'll need for second grade having spent more than the game plan, but (a little) less than I would pay for a boat.
We reach the car in time to take a phone call from Out-of-Town Mommy who, with a hint of sadness in her voice says wistfully, "Oh, school shopping. I like to do that with her."
Somebody hand me my Evil Knievel helmet, I need to go bang my head against a wall.
Game Plan?
Damn right, there is a game plan. How are you going to know what you need if you haven't done a proper prior assessment? Before heading out, I made Grace try on every piece of uniform from last year to see what is salvageable from first grade. If an article of clothing wasn't stained or too small we didn't need to replace it. (Note to self: Make her buy all navy blue so stains don't show.) I'm not saying I made a chart of all her uniforms, but if you don't go into that store informed you are going to be overmatched. I don't have all day to wrestle stacks of khaki pants.
Part Two is where Grace and I really butted heads. For weeks, every time we walked through Walmart or Target, Grace would beg me to pick out school supplies. Those giant bins of notebooks in the aisle called to her with a siren song. She asked to look at back packs in each store we walked through. And, of course, you need cute, dangly things to clip to your back pack. The buying of the supplies truly does irk me. I don't mind buying sanitizer or tissues for the classroom, but why does Grace need a brand new box of crayons when we have a basket of 643 broken (but usable) ones at home? Why a specific set of blue folders? Blue shirts. Blue folders. Is she going to school in a mushroom? Watching Grace select her supplies makes the task more tedious. She stands contemplating the wall of supplies as if she were examining a work of art in a museum. Looking over the details of each white board marker as if her life depended on selecting the correct one. I've seen her make faster selections at a boardwalk arcade prize counter. (Where I usually pray we have enough tickets to purchase a recliner in which I can relax while she leisurely spends her remaining tickets.) Each item becomes a negotiating point. She requests a six-pack of glue sticks; I counter with two. She picks up a new pencil case; not when she has three at home. She asks to buy the $7 markers; I say yes, as long as, this week, she uses the toilet paper that your hand pokes through when you wipe. I'm kidding. Sort of. Back and forth we spar until I want to simply hand her my debit card and go wait in the car. Finally, we make it to the car armed with all we'll need for second grade having spent more than the game plan, but (a little) less than I would pay for a boat.
We reach the car in time to take a phone call from Out-of-Town Mommy who, with a hint of sadness in her voice says wistfully, "Oh, school shopping. I like to do that with her."
Somebody hand me my Evil Knievel helmet, I need to go bang my head against a wall.
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