American Eagle. Abercrombie & Fitch. Hollister. There wasn’t a single kid walking in the hallways who didn’t have a name brand plastered on the front of his or her shirt. Not a single kid, except me. At least, that is what it felt like. My repeated off brand clothes were becoming part of an identity I didn’t want to carry, but my parents were adamant they weren’t buying clothes for the name on the front, or jeans (or lack there of) for the “trendy” holes. I remember the excitement I felt when my mom would walk into the house with trash bags of clothing, hand me downs from a friends’ daughter. I didn’t care where they came from, it felt like Christmas to me. Trying on “new to me” clothes and every once in a while hitting the jackpot with name brands.
I remember the first time I walked into American Eagle. I had stayed the night at a friend’s house, baby sitting money in my pocket. I remember looking at price tags, quickly finding myself in the back, rummaging through the sales rack. That’s when I saw it. It was a white t-shirt with green letters, “My dad’s a farmer. American Eagle Outfitters.” I am still unsure what possessed me to purchase said shirt, as my father was not in fact a farmer. However, walking out of that store with an American Eagle bag in hand, made me feel like a new “woman.” I wore that shirt so often, it eventually shrunk, became see-through, and found itself inside a large white trash bag, on its way to make another little girl’s dream come true.
If clothing insecurity was a thing, I had it. It followed me into my young adulthood. I refused to wear second hand clothes again. If I had a party to go to, I would go out the day before and buy a brand new outfit. If it was Saint Patrick’s Day, I wouldn’t just wear something green I had at home, I would pillage the shelves until I had the perfect outfit head to toe. I wasn’t so much stuck on the large letters across my chest, but the idea of “branding” myself still existed. If I wore something passed down or something I had worn before, people would know.
When I had my first daughter, Asher, my obsession carried over. OOTD (Outfit of the Day) took on a whole new meaning. The girl had enough clothes for triplets, never wore the same thing twice, and enough hair bows to decorate the Christmas tree in Times Square. I vowed to never make my kids feel the pain and torment of hand-me-downs. Until I had my second kid. And my third. And my fourth and my fifth. Suddenly, I was humbled. I had a brand new understanding of humble beginnings, and a brand new grace for my parents. My parents worked hard day in and day out for everything we had as kids. We went to the beach almost every summer, we had homemade meals for dinner, we participated in sports, and had a plethora of Christmas presents under our tree. Looking back, why didn’t I see that? Why was I so focused on the lack of rather than the abundance of?
I often think about my childhood when I am parenting my own kids. I always told myself I would never allow my kids to feel the scrutiny of being judged by their clothing or lack of. But the truth is every single Christmas break and every single Summer break, I go through every one of my kids’ closets. With large white trash bags in hand, I begin to bag and label sizes. During the process, each kid goes through a series of complaints. The constant trying on clothes to see what still fits or doesn’t is a tedious job that obviously no kid enjoys.
But let me tell you what they do enjoy. When it is time to pull out those large white trash bags and move to the next size. I see the eyes of my children light up as if it is Christmas morning, excited to see what they may find. Every single time they pull a clothing item out of the bag, I feel a sense of nostalgia. I remember being that girl. Excited for her “new to me” clothes. They don’t care about the fact that the jeans may have been worn in previous years by their older sibling. It is actually quite the opposite. When Axton, my 9-year-old son, sees my 2-year-old son pulling out clothes that once belonged to him, he immediately beams with pride. When my middle daughter, Ari, is trying on clothes that once belonged to my oldest, Asher, I see her smile ear to ear knowing that she is following in her big sis’s footsteps. The whole experience is a time for remembrance and a time for bonding that I look forward to at least twice a year.
The large white trash bags were a staple of my childhood – one that I swore off. One that I promised I would never bring into my children’s lives. But the truth is, I did. At the end of the day, this life is temporary. We don’t truly own anything; we are simply stewards. Whether our wardrobe is off a shiny shelf with a tag, from a discount rack in the back of a popular store, or from a white trash bag, our clothing doesn’t change who we are or make our identity. This perspective change was exactly what I needed. One I wish I could go back and tell my younger self. One that I hope I am embedding into my own children’s lives.