Fun at Farm and Fleet

Because it makes me crazy when my kids look like reprobates – which is probably one of many politically incorrect words I’m going to use this week – I sometimes swoop into action with my credit card.

Today’s mission was to buy #1 son a pair of work boots so he could stop flap, flap, flapping to work as a weatherization specialist.  He is, of all of my kids, the least conscious of looks, fashion, community standards….you get my drift.  This doesn’t  mean that he is ascetic in any way.  He loves material things — especially video games and tools — he is just missing the proper attire gene.  I blame it on adoption.

So after the Packers beat the Jets today, off we went to Farm and Fleet, the five of us — #1 son, #2 son, #1 son’s daughter, the husband and me.  Together in the car.  Ridiculous.  Two grown men in the back seat squeezed up against a four year old in a car seat. 

Flashbacks.

We are now Back to the Future.  #1 son, sensing that I’m really needing to upgrade him….like needing to do this so I feel better as a mom kind of needing….starts hovering around the $149 work boots.  It’s a game for him.  Sort of like ordering lobster in every restaurant we ever walked into just to see if we’d make good on the “order whatever you’d like” directive.  (We didn’t.)

The Dad points him to cheaper boots and then goes to look at snowblowers with son #2 whose threatened move to Madison in January means that we will have to shovel our own snow!  Oh no!

#1 son pushes – again just for fun and because, obviously it’s worked in the past – but I’m firm.  He duck walks and crawls on the floor to try out the cheaper – well, let’s say, less expensive –  boots (because this is what he does when he’s insulating attics) while the same middle aged guy holding a pair of jeans keeps walking by looking sidewise at us.  I didn’t even think about it until this minute — older white lady arguing with an Hispanic guy crawling around on the floor of Farm and Fleet about what boots to buy.  We continue to entertain.

Feeling guilty, I throw in a package of socks.  #1 son tries to hit me up for a new hammer and a tape measure.  You know, work necessities. Dad’s already put the kibosh on that and because I’m a firm believer in a united front, I also say no.  Of course, he should buy those things on his own.  (Left alone, I would buy him the hammer, the tape measure, and possibly a level, a sander, and a power drill.  They’re work-related.  He’s working.  Thank God.  We should buy him tools to celebrate!)

We leave. 

“Where are the socks?”  (Mom)

“They’re not here.”  (son #1)

“Dad, you must have left them.”  (son 1) “No, I gave them to you.” (Dad)

(Mom thinking) We need to get the socks or I’ll feel bad about the boots.

What changes?  Nothing changes.