National Underwear Day Encourages Mom to Reminsence

Deep, emotional sentiment isn’t exactly what one is usually looking for when re-stocking your children’s underwear supply. But it is what I found during a recent shopping trip that included sorting through the three-packs of boy’s cotton briefs and girl’s panties at the local big box super store. I realized just how much they have grown up in the last couple of months. And also just how much I’d taken it for granted. Oh sure, there had been the hints that I chose to ignore. Such as how handsome my 14 year old looked wearing that tie and business-man like shoes for his eighth grade graduation. There was the manner in which my 10-year old daughter kept staring at herself in the mirror. Oh and yes, let’s not forget the sometimes annoying, but always adorable, cries from my almost two-year-old informing me that I am his Mommy. It should have been enough to jolt me into sentimental quicksand.

But no, it wasn’t. Instead, there I was debating the pros and cons of all-white or color underwear packs and it dawned on me. My kids are growing up. They really are. The thought barely clung to what was left of my brain before my daughter announced her full intentions of entering puberty with or without my approval. You see, there I stood holding out a matching set of pink panty and sort-of bra trying to gain her finicky fashion conscious approval. The sort-of bra is a great compromise between Moms who want their daughters to wear those pink-bowed undershirts a bit longer and young ladies who don’t realize just how young they still really are. Sort-of bra looks like a bra to the later of the equation because it stops at the midriff but Moms like it because it isn’t frilly or cupped. This will work, I thought. But my dear daughter wasn’t buying into the deal. Her 10-year-old discernment knew the offered under garment with the frilly banding at the bottom that would cover her almost to her belly button just wasn’t going to fit into her idea of a bra. Just when I thought that maybe my color selection was the glitch, she quietly, yet firmly tells me, ” NO, I want a real bra.” Real bra. Real bra. Real bra. The words seemed to echo down the underwear aisle. Inside I was hoping against all odds that she was not going to point at something that needed to be filled. Stalling for time, I cleverly asked, “Um, what do you mean? This might buy me some time. But instead, thoughts of what defined a real bra to her were racing through my head as I pictured several of the bras of my life. Eek, not always a pretty site as I landed lastly on the image of the enormous nursing bra. Sure, hubby was delighted, but that’s another column all in itself.

Back to the situation at hand. “A real bra, huh, sweetie” I said. “You mean with lace and stuff?” Um, whoa, Mom, you are stepping it, I thought. The word lace sent fear through me and I shuddered to think what a real bra meant to her. She’s ten. She’s not even eleven or thirteen. And now she is answering my question by reaching her hand toward the ones labeled ” teen bra.” I was desperately hoping there was something called “pre-teen bra” or ” not a little girl, but not even close to being a teen bra”. But no such luck. She held up a cute little number and said, ” Like this,” as she traced her fingers along the upper part of the cup and then down toward where cleavage would be if a breathing female were wearing it. ” One that goes down.” Down. Oh, down. I see, I think I said. Well, down was where I was looking at that moment. It was my attempt to hide my unwillingness to move further down that track toward her womanhood. Oh, and yes, I was also trying to disguise a slight smirk that there was no way she was even close to needing a “going down” type of bra. But nevertheless, we Moms keep things moving. So I said, ” Oh, okay. Let’s look for something in your size.” I was so smart. Or so I thought.

After all, this size hunt through the “going down” bras would buy me lots of time. She is after all, just a bit of nothing and so I thought that nothing at that rack would be small enough to fit her. Looking through the sizes, I thought to myself, where is my own Mom with that tape measure she always kept in her purse? Dah, I thought, as another revelation hit me: Is this why she had that thing in there? Wow, Mom just gained some more points on the intelligence scale. Wasn’t she smart? Oh, but we don’t have time right now for all that. We must figure out this bra thing before this young lady figures out I am stalling. What number does she need? It used to be so simple. It was small, medium, large. Now it is complicated. There are numbers to contend with.

My fingers stumbled through the selections and made a quick halt when letters of the alphabet were included alongside the numbers. Oh, no. Not that too. No yet. Please. Fortunately, there was a large enough selection of just number sizes to accommodate her need to pick and choose. Time to go try some on. Her giddy demeanor was obvious as she nearly ran over the clerk to get into the dressing room. Or maybe it was embarrassment because there was an older man sitting there waiting for his wife to finish trying on clothes. Nonetheless, she left me eating carpet dust. No more am I a welcome addition to the dressing. No, I must wait outside just like the old man to see the finished product. Except my daughter won’t be tromping out of the dressing room to show off the bra. I remember that from the days when I was allowed in. Now, I have to think about how to get in there – legitimately without causing an invasion of the all-too delicate privacy. But alas, I hear a request to come in real quick. Okay, I say, giving thanks that I foresaw the need to send older brother with younger brother to the electronics department. Sure do pitty the clerks over in that area.

She allows the door to open just enough for the friction of my body to send up smoke signals throughout the store: Mom entering dressing room, Mom entering dressing room. I see the dilemma that nearly every young lady faces: The straps just aren’t right even though it fits around the torso. Ah, it’s my chance to say, hey, no straps necessary with the long, midriff not quite a bra deal. But, no, I bite my tongue. And I explain about the straps and how to adjust them. As I stood there adjusting the straps on this bra that lay flat as a pancake against her skin, thoughts of treason to her childhood hit me. It was as if I was adjusting her to adulthood. I prayed that I didn’t make the straps too tight. I also prayed that some young man doesn’t manage within the next ten years to undo what I just did. All the while, her eyes shown and a sweet smile I’d seen many times before came across her face. “I’m growing up, I’m growing up,” she said with an assuring pride. Not a boastful pride. Just one full of knowledge. I was proud of her. She knew what she wanted.

I thought of the times she had pranced around the house in panties and a long, sleeveless t-shirt with the pretty pink bow in the middle. Those were precious days of innocence and promise. Now, I could see her becoming a young woman who kept her robe tightly cinched around her waist. I was suddenly quite thankful to God above for arranging this fleeting moment. It was indeed just a moment. The toddler and the teen were back at the dressing room area and the teen was banging on the door. He wondered what was taking us so long. Against his wishes and with a cart full of his sister’s new underwear topped off with his younger brother, the teen and I headed for the young men’s section. The trauma was evident upon his face. It was killing him. He was way “too cool” to be spotted at the store with an adult less alone in the underwear aisle with me.

Before we left the house for intended store, he had tried to give me some walking orders on what type of underwear he wanted me to purchase in his absence. But with instructions such as “boxer shorts, not too tight or too short or too open; white is okay, but prefer ones with “cool, rocking” prints on them”, I decided he’d better come along for approval. He wants to be manly like his Dad who was home cleaning his firearms. Apparently, underwear bonding doesn’t exist in the male domain. I silently snickered realizing what a great start he actually is off to you. No offense to my darling husband, but in the teen’s room I find underwear laying on the floor right next to the laundry basket just like in the bedroom Dad shares with me. Now to the baby. He’s a bigger kid âÂ?¦ bigger than the normal two-year-old. The onesies are just not going to work for much longer. Oh, if they could only stay little forever or so the ad says. Ha, ha. Mommy doesn’t want to let him grow up just yet. If she puts him in big boy undies with Superman or GI Joe, it’s over.

He isn’t a little baby anymore. As if this is something new. Duh, Mom. He’s talking, purposely ignoring you, has selective hearing already and points down there and says, pee-pee. He’s two going on 18. It’s just that buying briefs for him makes it all seem too permanent. I think about the size 4 boy’s underwear I picked up at a recent yard sale and tell myself he really doesn’t need any underwear now. Or at least I try. Good grief, I assure myself. It’s a step toward potty training and the end to diaper changes. Isn’t that what you want? Haven’t you filled enough landfills already? But that doesn’t work. I linger over the onsies and empty the entire rack looking for a bigger size. I know full well it doesn’t exist because I consoled myself during the last underwear buying spree that at least he had that last size to go through before going to miniature man’s world. But that just didn’t seem all that long ago. Did he really grow up that much? And did I really miss a lot? I pray no. I pray for peace as my cart contents reflect the aging of my beautiful family and head to the check-out hoping to avoid the store’s toy section.

Good grief, was I just complaining about them growing up? Maybe I better get them a few more toys! Footnote: Amy Armstrong is a freelance writer living in Eagle River, Alaska. The 14-year-old is now age 21 serving in the United States Marine Corps wearing whatever underwear they issue him, the daughter is headed into her senior year of high school as her parents do their best to battle fashion trends that dictate her frilly bras ought to be seen, not covered; and the youngest child is now nine wearing size 12 briefs and breaking his mother’s heart.