My sister and I would hide in the clothes racks from our mother when we didn’t get what we wanted. Like a revolving door with no entrance, we’d peek out from the circular rack stuffed with a clearance winter wardrobe searching for Mom after just swinging a tantrum in the open aisle.
She didn’t do much . . . no, any “real” clothes shopping. She made most of her own, and ours—hand-me-downs from our cousins. (The boys outnumbered the girls so that was a factor for us both becoming what most country girls in Wisconsin were—tomboys. The biggest factor: Dad thought we’d both be boys. He’d have to wait another seven years.)
So, going to Kohls instead of Pick’n Save was like a trip to Wisconsin Dells. Mom needed underwear. It was the only item she couldn’t make and refused to go cheap on; silk or satin, she didn’t do cloth underwear.
We never did and never would get what we wanted after putting up a fit, but it was more of a game to us all the same. It was the reaction out of Mom that we were eager to buy. But, she never once gave into us. She adjusted her purse strap swung over her shoulder, waved a good riddance over her shoulder and kept on walking. It was only when she disappeared out of view, did we leave our clothing caves and stalk her through the store, dashing behind piles of jeans, the jewelry counter, or the occasional pillar.
Mom searched through the underwear, looking for her size as though she was unaware of our spying. This only made us want, need her more. When we returned to her side, she said nothing like she hadn’t even missed us. This made us only want her more.
