In a nanosecond, I’m slouching in my corner again.
I have memories of shopping trips with my own mother when I rejected everything she pointed out simply because she pointed it out—the generational struggle over fashion is universal and not just about power plays in a stepfamily. But there’s an extra bite to this stepmother-stepdaughter exchange and it comes from the looming invisible third party in the store: D.’s mother. I know from listening to D. at home that shopping for clothes with her mom is special for her. They’ve bought matching tank tops and accessories, and D. is always careful to return to her mother after her days in our house wearing clothes that her mom purchased because she knows it gives her mother pleasure to see her wearing them.
A lot of thought and planning on D.’s part goes into transporting her outfits back and forth—more planning than a seven-year-old should have to be responsible for. And D., who switches between our houses every couple of days, is extraordinarily responsible. It’s hard work for her to be so grown up, and I think every child of divorced parents must feel some version of this burden. Would D.’s acceptance of clothing choices from me be tantamount to rejecting her mother? Is there inherent sadness even among the candy-colored racks of Target clothes because my stepdaughter is shopping with the wrong woman? Camouflage might be popular this year, but I don’t want D. to wear it because she thinks that she’s fighting a battle.
It’s time for an experiment: I pick up those baby blue camouflage pants again, and sneak behind the bathing suits to hand them to her father.
“Maybe she’ll like these,” I say quietly, knowing he has no recollection that I offered them up to her a moment ago. I immediately duck behind the bathing suits once more.
He shows them, she’s delighted. Sold. All my suggestions from then on are filtered through my husband, and shopping concludes smoothly.
When we pay for our purchases and are walking back to the car, D. skips happily in the parking lot, swinging my husband’s hand. He and I each carry half of the shopping bags, and I’m glad that the bags contain clothes that she likes, clothes with a little bit of my influence, even if she doesn’t know it. I’m even happier that I’ve found a way, albeit a tiny way, to lighten the load she carries inside, to sidestep a potential tug-of-war over her perception of her mother’s desires versus her perception of mine. After all, I have plenty of generational struggle over fashion ahead of me in the boys’ department with my daughter, should I decide I’m looking for a fight.
PREVIOUS PAGE
