Clown Pants... They Come in Jeans Now...

I had to take the boys shopping today. They’ve hit growth spurts and they need shorts, shirts, and jeans. I hate shopping. Shopping with them was going to prove to be a nightmare, I was sure.

It flat wiped me out. I came home dragging ass. Literally. The problem is that my children are short and thin, yet their torsos are not of a small person. My eldest is going to be 10, and he wears a size 9-10 shirt, but a size 7 pants. He’s going to have a washboard stomach like his Dad. His Dad, at age 45, still has a 30 inch waist, so you can imagine how small my son’s waist is. They do not look disproportioned, as a matter of fact, women are going to love my broad shouldered boys. But forget them… as their Mom, it’s a real pain in the neck to buy them clothes.

The first store we went to, we were able to find a few things for Son#1. We made it to the second store and I’ve had it. There are three of them, one of me, and everything… I mean e-ver-y-th-ing always seems like a battle to me. “Don’t touch your brother” “Inside voice please” “Stay out of his face” “What part of ‘stay with me’ did you not understand?” “We just went to the bathroom… you have to hold it” “Quit stepping on his feet” “I know you’re bored. Trust me. I am too” and on and on it went.

So by the time we go to the last store, I just wanted my personal hell to be over. I had a headache, I was tired and… I needed chocolate. Or something. Anything. But no more shopping.

Son#3 (Bones) finds a pair of jeans he likes. He puts them on, a size 4 (we were living on the edge picking them out as he’s JUST NOW in a size 4 at almost 6 years of age) and he is swimming in them. SWWWWIIIIMMMMINNNGGG in them. And the following is as best I can recollect:

Bones: I like these, Mom.

Me: They’re too big. Look at them. You can look down the waist and see your feet.

Bones: Not if I wear my shirt tucked out. I like these.

Me: You can’t have them. You look like a dork.

Bones, looking at me incredulously: I do not!

Me: You do. Look. I want you to look in the mirror.

He looks in the mirror, staring at himself long and hard, the incredibly vain little man that he is.

Bones: I like these.

Me, getting eye level and looking at him in the mirror: Son, listen to me, they are too big. What do you see:?

Bones: I need a different shirt.

Wha???? He needs a different shirt? I was soo very over this at this point.

Me: Little Buddy, the shirt, is not, the problem. (I grab the crotch which is hanging around his knees) Look, the crotch is around your knees.

Bones: I don’t care. I like them.

Me: THEY LOOK LIKE CLOWN PANTS!!!

Bones: I don’t care. I like them.

Me: Don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re outside running around and you fall over because they are around your ankles.

So we bought them. There must be some radar kids have… “Mom is caving. She’s on the edge. She can’t take no more. Push this button ‘right here’ and I can get what I want.”

As we walk out I hear this little voice behind me, "I like the crotch at my knees. I don't care if the crotch is at my knees. crotch, crotch, crotch" and I tune him out.

And so it went. He looks like a dork. He owns jeans clown pants. It just needs a cool shirt. He’s not allowed to wear them with me. I’ll let him wear them with his fashionable Father. Oh, that’ll go over like a brick.