POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE—OF PARENTHOOD
THE FAMILY GROOVE’S RESIDENT MOM-ENTATOR,
SASHA
BROWN-WORSHAM,
REPORTS ON THE
MADNESS OF MOTHERHOOD
MATERIAL BABY
During this time of recession, cutbacks, dwindling 401(k)s and layoffs,
my 22-month-old daughter owns 20 pairs of shoes.
They are pastel-hued, gold and sparkly reminders of our excesses. She
has two pairs of Doc Martens knock-offs, one in silver, the other gold;
one pair of knee-high black boots; a dozen assorted rainbow Mary Janes, three pairs of sneakers (one that lights up) and at least six pairs of sparkly pumps.
Long ago, my husband and I agreed to limit ourselves to two pairs of our own shoes by the door, but her shoes litter our tiny foyer—a message to all visitors that a toddler not only lives, but dominates, the home they have just entered.
Soon any visitor to our 1,000-square-foot “three-bedroom” (one bedroom lacks a closet and so is therefore not considered a bedroom by real estate standards) condo is greeted by plastic drums, trains, a rocking horse, doll strollers and at least two dozen stuffed animals, their unnatural skin tone unnerving to adults but irresistible to toddlers browsing Target with their moms.
“I couldn’t help it,” I tell my husband when I return home from yet another errand, new toy, shoes or pants for our daughter in tow. I blame the toddler. I blame the new baby—“I want her to know we still love her as much as him.” But I never blame myself.
The books promise “you can’t spoil an infant,” and even though they mean with affection, I took it as license to play dress-up. My own fetish for shoes took a backseat due to financial concerns. Somehow $200 for a pair of Stuart Weitzmans seemed overly indulgent prior to our first child, but $50 for a pair of baby shoes was a veritable bargain. Besides, my feet—and everything else—grew during the pregnancy and I needed an outlet. So rather than stuff my swollen feet into discount shoes, I bought children’s clothing and accessories—just as cute as their adult counterparts at a fraction of the price.
Mama’s True Religions are at least $150, but Baby’s can be purchased for $110/$125, depending on the store. Not that we have a pair. I have had to stop myself from buying these on three separate occasions—once in a boutique in Los Angeles and twice in New York. Until we have True Religions, I am merely exploring our material options, not mired in them. I am listening to “Material Girl,” but I am not singing it.
I blame Madonna. And the Internet. And Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, Harlow Madden and Kingston Rossdale. The
Us Weekly copies that litter my gym make for great reading while I work the step mill, and without them, I might not know that Suri Cruise has a penchant for long, well-made dresses by Burberry or that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt owns a lot of Bonpoint.
Of course, we lack the funds of those dodging the paparazzi, so I have to make do with Stride Rite, and I do most of my shopping in Cambridge, Mass.—far from Rodeo Drive. But there are plenty of boutiques where a material Mama can lose her mind—and half her mortgage—with one swipe of the plastic.
Perhaps it is because she is a girl. I had visions of temperance throughout my pregnancy and leading up to the shower, but it was the shower—the pink-drenched, crinoline-filled, tutu-fabulous baby shower—that threw me over the edge. Her first shoes came that day. And although they predated the heels for infant girls currently being peddled nationwide, they are very similar—tiny, pointed hot pink shoes with a long, black-and-white polka-dotted ribbon designed to wind around the infant’s foot twice before being tied off in a bow at her ankle. These are crib shoes with style.
My daughter only wore them once and they fell off five times, but the compliments that ensued made an addict out of me. I love the validation I get when my daughter is dressed well, when her hair is perfect, her shoes polished and her outfit cute, stylish and clean.
“You dress her so well,” our babysitter tells me. And, though I am embarrassed to admit it, the comment makes me beam with pride. I may not get dinner on the table without the help of the Whole Foods premade counter or clean without the help of a team of people, but I can dress my daughter. She will look good even as I sport pajamas well into the evening hours most days.
A few years ago when my cousin was getting married, she told me that skimping on the food was the one area that would scream “cheap wedding.” Save anywhere else—the flowers, the music, even the liquor—but skimp on food and everyone will know you are cheap. I feel the same way about toddler clothing.
Except I don’t; I know it is wrong. I am well aware of the excesses so rampant in today’s parenting culture. I mock $20,000-a-year preschools with waiting lists, challenge the idea of music classes for infants and would never be caught with Baby Einstein in my DVD player, so why this excess? Why the desire to overspend and spoil my child when it comes to clothing? Our country is in the midst of a recession and my toddler daughter is channeling Imelda Marcos.
It could be as simple as I love shoes. I do. Or, I should say, I did. Now several of my favorite shoes are in dire need of a trip to the cobbler, and I don’t think I have bought a frivolous pair of shoes since before the kids were born. In the two years since their births, the only clothes I have purchased are a few pairs of pants at Old Navy to accommodate for the time between the births of my children and the squeezing back into my old wardrobe.
Perhaps I should channel some of this materialism into myself. Or perhaps I should rid myself of it altogether. Like a porn addict, I usually try to hide the number of outfits she owns. I am ashamed. Maybe we should volunteer at a soup kitchen or donate some of her shoe money to the Salvation Army this holiday season. We probably will.
But there will still be more toys, stuffed animals and a giant wooden kitchen set we have no room for beneath our Christmas tree. Most of all, there will be clothing and more shoes.
I figure I only get a decade to deck my daughter out myself. After that, I am sure she will want to pick her own clothing and shoes and we will argue about cost and frivolous purchases and I will worry about spoiling her. But until then, this is the best game of dress-up I have ever played.
Sasha Brown-Worsham is a mother and freelance writer who lives in Boston, where she writes and tries to keep her children alive and well fed.
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