Shopping with reluctant son
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Shopping with reluctant son: college freshman wants black By Maren S. Smith, March 2003 Last summer, with our oldest son heading off to college, I drooled over advertisements filled with sheet sets, comforters, and matching desk accessories and poured over the daily assortment of catalogs. I suggested he call his new roommate to coordinate their color scheme. His eyes narrowed, boring through me, as only a teenager can, letting me know that was not happening. “I am not going to call him. That’s weird. Guys don’t call guys. I could care less what he brings,” he said. To me, it was weird not to call. I mean, the university had provided a phone number on a very official form. I presume they did that so you could coordinate the bedspreads. Wasn’t he the least bit curious if his roommate was going with plaids or solids? Back in my day, roommates matched. As college drew near, I attempted to schedule a time for the two of us to go shopping for school gear, worried that all the good egg crate mattress covers would be taken along with the most chic alarm clocks. I hated to think of our son starting off his college career with leftovers the other college kids and their moms had shunned. “I don’t have to come with you, do I?” he asked. “Honey, this is important. If I choose the wrong color, I’ll never forgive myself.” If I had to fork over for expensive therapy or field questions about his own Mommy Dearest book on the Jerry Springer Show, I’d never recover. “Come on,” I whined, “everybody else’s mom gets to go college shopping.” He crossed his arms, standing his ground. “It’s not a big deal. Just get black.” “Black? That’s it? And, what if they’re all out of black? Do you have a back-up palette?” “Gray would work, too.” Great. I’d get to decorate a morgue, not a college dorm room. If his roommate just happened to be Goth, they’d match. So, there I was, at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Alone. All the girl moms and their daughters shrieked as they found the perfect Kleenex box cover to match the pastel floral comforters in their overflowing carts. They bought things I never knew existed--exotic toiletries, fuzzy rugs, and pink Q-tip containers. They bonded as they power shopped. I trudged solo to the checkout counter with two measly sheet sets, a lone comforter, one laundry bag, and my splurge, a desk lamp, all in basic black. So, you can imagine my giddiness, when that same son, back home on a college break, asked to go shopping with me at The Container Store, the Mecca of storage paraphernalia. In retrospect, I realize that his shopping ruse was just a cheap and tawdry ploy to get me to pay for the black, metal, under-the-bed storage unit he wanted, but I didn’t care. We were going to have our moment. I went overboard. Feeling it was time to fully indoctrinate him, we also visited The Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware, and Crate and Barrel. It was like introducing him to the great masters, the Da Vincis, Vermeers, and Van Goghs. This was shopping Nirvana. For most moms, this would not equate to an historical event, worthy of its own Creative Memories scrapbook page. Apparently, girl moms shop non-stop. But, this is not true for the other half, the boy moms, those lone females who co-exist in houses rife with testosterone. Moms like me. To top it off, we ordered mochas at Starbucks. Over double shots of caffeine, we discussed décor, Dali, dentistry, and dreams. Conversation has replaced shouting matches, looks of understanding have substituted stares of disgust, and maturity has superceded the impatience of youth. As we picked up our shopping bags to leave, he casually mentioned that one day, when he has his own apartment, he’d like to go shopping for real furniture. With me. He liked the furniture displays we saw, at least the ones in black. Some things never change. About the author: Maren Smith is a "Boy Mom" living in Danville, California. She keeps busy with two active teenage sons and husband, while teaching middle school, and writing. She bikes, hikes, reads, travels, laughs a lot, and always takes time to daydream. © siliconmom
