THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, April 2, 1995 TAG: 9503300031
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Long : 116 lines
KERRY SAYS:
I like to think of myself as an honest person.
It's a trait I'm trying hard to pass on to my children.
But you can turn into something of a sneak if you're married to someone who believes prices stabilized after the Great Depression.
This is especially true in the area of children's attire.
Here's how it works: I buy a new dress for my daughter. She models it for her father. He looks up suspiciously and his eyebrows say: It's-cute-how-much-was-it?
I try to stare him down, but it turns into a wince. It was $45.
``Forty-five dollars,'' he thunders. ``You're kidding. For that little thing? There's no material in it. Forty-five dollars. I don't believe it.''
Thank goodness he didn't ask about the $40 shoes and the $5 tights.
This is a man who wears Beecroft and Bull suits, Brooks Brothers shirts and Johnston and Murphy shoes.
For some reason, he thinks children's clothes should never cost more than $11. (I discovered the magic number when I came home with a pair of khaki pants for our son last week. How much, he asked. Eleven dollars, I replied. They were on sale. Only $11? Why didn't you buy a couple more?)
I call this Paternal Price Shock, or PPS. It can be a very tricky disorder unless you have developed some techniques to cope with it.
Here's how I deal with it:
When asked about the price I will sometimes jokingly answer with a price $50 higher than I actually paid. When my husband seems on the edge of cardiac arrest, I laugh and tell him the real price. By that time it seems very reasonable.
When I've purchased an item on sale I always tell him the original price, assuring him that I would never ever pay that much. I then detail how I have scoured local shops looking for a discount. It is then and only then I reveal the actual sticker price.
When I come home with a sackful of stuff, I try to itemize the costs. It makes it all seem smaller somehow.
For instance, my son recently joined a soccer team. I came home after sign-ups having spent $100 on fees and equipment. Even I was distressed.
When my husband asked, I broke it down.
Let's see, I said. There was the $35 league fee, the $16 soccer shorts, the $15 ball, the $12 shin pads, the $3 socks, and cleats.
How much?
``His cleats were $24,'' I said, tentatively.
``Twenty-four dollars,'' he yelled. ``That's ridiculous.''
``At least they weren't Johnston and Murphy cleats,'' I retorted.
What is it with fathers, Dave? Why do they think we spend too much on children's clothes? Men who wouldn't dream of allowing polyester to touch their bodies seem to think it would be fine on the children.
This situation is not unique to our family. A totally unbiased survey of my friends shows that almost all have the same problem. My editor's wife even confided her secret for handling the how-much-did-it-cost question.
``Always remember,'' she said sternly, ``it is not our fault that things cost so much.''
When he asks, she said, answer simply, `You don't want to know.' ''
DAVE SAYS:
Uh-oh, break out the penicillin, doc. We've got another mom delirious with Bean Fever.
This virus, first traced to the ventilation system of the L.L. Bean warehouse in Freeport, Maine, can strike either of the sexes. Doctors agree, though, that it is most common among suburban mothers from age 25 through 42.
The most telling symptom is a mad desire to dress one's children like miniature adults, like perfect little ladies and gentlepersons. And well-to-do little adults, at that. Chinos. Shetland wools. Combed cottons and madras prints. Miniature Bass Weejuns.
Men generally don't mind if the kids look just like what they are: kids. We grew up knowing that the only accessorizing a kid's outfit needs is grass stains on the knees and a smear of molten Baby Ruth down the front of an otherwise boring white T-shirt.
Sadly, Kerry, your effort to unload the blame on your husband is a form of denial, an unwillingness to admit your sickness. It's like the wino who claims he's hitting the Thunderbird first thing in the morning because he's out of Lavoris.
What your husband understands is that a kid can outgrow the left leg of a $35 pair of pants while you're still struggling to get his foot through the right leg. Spending money on finely tailored kiddie togs in the hautest of fabrics is fiscal insanity.
The only way a 6-year-old's dress should be worth $45 is if it was coated in Teflon. Of all the things we've learned to protect with Teflon - from frying pans to Ronald Reagan - I've never understood why they haven't treated children's clothing with it.
You imply, Kerry, that your husband's taste in clothing should give you license to spend equal amounts on the kids. Steve doesn't hang around the house in those suits, does he? 'Course not. He buys those clothes for professional purposes only. A good suit is as vital to a lawyer as a good saw is to a carpenter.
Your kids, on the other hand, do not need to make an impression on a judge and a jury. (That comes later, when they start driving automobiles.)
And, unless you go back to cooking with suet, Steve is not likely to grow out of his Brooks Brothers suits. He is not likely to roll around in his lunch while wearing one, upchuck into his pants cuffs, or come home from a hard day in court with finger paints smeared down the front of his vest. (Unless he winds up cross-examining Kato Kaelin).
Here's some advice from a father whose son is now in his sixth year of college: When you see a $45 frock in a catalog, run down to the discount house and buy the polyester copy for $15. Then put the other $30 into long-term CDs that will mature about the time your oldest starts browsing through application forms for Bryn Mawr.
Not that I had the foresight to do this myself, I confess. But I sure wish I had, every 15th of the month when I start stroking checks to pay off education loans, which will someday be crossing in the mail with my Social Security checks.
So give your husband a little bit of credit. It may be that the crisp white flash of his Dior shirt cuffs hasn't blinded him to what's coming down the road. MEMO: Kerry Dougherty can be reached at 446-2302. Dave Addis can be reached at
446-2588, and via e-mail at addis(at)infi.net. by CNB