Shopping with Mom

October 28, 2004
When I was 12, my mom and I started a ritual. Every Saturday she would wake me up at 6am and we’d get dressed and spend the entire day shopping. She’d give me my allowance which was usually $5 and we’d head to the first spot which was the Capital Flea Market in South San Jose, about 10 minutes away from our house. It was actually a drive-in theatre that turned into a flea market on the weekends. For some reason we both became hooked on Rain-Blo bubble gum and sought it out every weekend at the flea market. We found one vendor who sold them by the box, like you see in the corner store. Mommy would buy a box of them and depending on her mood she’d buy me a box. If she wasn’t in the best of moods, I had to use my allowance to purchase a box.

I hated going to the flea market during the summer as it was unbearably hot and dry. The flea markets didn’t have shade and it was Mommy’s goal to start at one end and work her way up and down each aisle until the end making sure she didn’t miss anything. That was at least three hours of walking. I know, everyone has bad summers but this is all I knew and for me it was miserable. It wasn’t the type of heat that came with a breeze or moisture. It was dry and burning. I could feel my forehead sizzling and turning black. I was a kid who hated any physical activity that made me sweat. So to walk around a flea market with my mom was fun because I was with her, which was my favorite thing to do in the world, but the heat caused me to sweat to the point where my shirt would be wet and I could feel the moisture running down my back.

It was so hot I couldn’t wear closed shoes like sneakers or loafers. I had to wear sandals or flip-flops. This was gross for me considering even at age 10 I was a OCD about cleanliness. I hated getting dirty, sweating and having anything touch my feet other than nice plush, clean, carpet. However, if I wanted to hang out with Mommy at the flea market, it was either expose my feet or have them sweat to death. I wanted to cry when she’d decide to go to the farmer’s market section. There would be smashed fruits and vegetables on the ground and I’d do everything possible to keep from having any of it touch my feet to the point of walking on the heels of my sandals to make sure nothing touched me.

My mom always thought I was being dramatic and ignored me but it was something that almost brought me to tears. I would immediately rush to the bathroom when we got home and washed my feet. I’d beg for handy wipes if we were going to make any other stops. I finally started asking my mom where we were going each morning and only if we were skipping the flea market would I wear my flip-flops.

But all that aside hanging out with my mom on Saturday mornings were the best.

They were the best when she was in a good mood. She’d joke with me and at the flea market we’d share a cup of French fries or she’d give me money to get an ice cream cone. I loved sharing my food with my mom. I felt like I was giving her something back.

The second stop on our Saturday shopping trips would be to the local thrift stores. They all smelled the same. Musty from unwashed old clothes and furniture. But Mommy loved those places and came away with some good finds on pots, toasters, can openers, books and sometimes she’d get clothes there for her and us. My dad hated her going to those stores. He felt we were not poor and should not buy other people’s cast-offs. His complaints were ignored and he realized it so he just asked her not to ever buy shoes from thrift stores. He felt people could have infections or athlete’s feet and he didn’t want that brought into the house. Just thinking of that grosses me out and to this day I won’t buy shoes from consignment shops. But Mommy didn’t care, she’d find shoes she liked and sneak them in the house and Daddy wouldn’t know the difference. Sometimes when we were shopping she’d try and get me to try on a pair of shoes and I’d complain until she said forget it.

Our next stop of the day would be any garage sale happening on the way to the grocery store. My mom was such a garage sale fanatic that she’d almost leave tire marks coming to a stop if she passed one. She’d always make me look out the car window to see if there was anything good. I was her radar. We spent so much time together I actually knew what she would and wouldn’t like. She trusted me and if I said stop, she’d pull over. It was always a 50/50 chance she’d buy something but she had to stop just in case to make sure she wasn’t missing something. We had more Tupperware containers and pots and pans than anyone I knew then or know now.

Our final stop would be the grocery store which was uneventful but Mommy still had to go up and down each aisle even if she had a list. If she was in a good mood she’d play with me there and as I walked ahead of her she’d pinch or tickle me and when I squealed and squirmed away she’d laugh and ask, “what’s wrong with you little girl, is that a new dance?” I’d look at her with playful anger and tell her no and she’d say, “I think that is a new dance, show me again”, and she’d pinch me again. This continued down the aisle until my squeals were too loud for her. At that point her face would turn from playful to grouchy and she’d pull away from me and tell me to stop being so loud. She asked me, “Why do you have to ruin it by being so loud?” I didn’t realize I was ruining anything, I was just having fun and I was a kid, we have no sense of decibels and when loud is too loud. At that point she’d refuse to talk to me or play and she was back to the business of grocery shopping. That was hard to understand. No one was looking at us or judging her, she was a mom playing with her daughter. But she didn’t see it that way. She told me I was acting a fool in public. This pattern of our Saturday shopping trips went on for years from when I was 8 until I was 16.

It hurt when we’d go shopping and she was in a bad mood or her mood would turn sour. We’d still have our ritual stops but she was quiet, grouchy and everything I said, did or touched got on her nerves. This resulted in my getting in trouble over the smallest things (touching something, walking too slowly, being too loud, etc.) which usually resulted in my being yelled at in front of other people. I hated that. She could have done anything to me, taken something away but to yell at me in public was the worst. I felt so small and I’d refuse to cry so I’d swallow my tears and feel like I was choking on a lump where it sat in my chest for the rest of the day.