IF THE PANTS FIT

It is terrifying, really, how fast children can grow. Take my son Sean, for instance. One day, he was a little boy cuddling in my lap, and the next minute, he was reaching over my head to grab cookies from the top cupboard.

As he approached the teenage years, the pace of his growth only increased. He grew nine inches in one year. I was constantly buying him new sneakers and pants. His old clothes got handed down to his brothers, which created confusion for my husband who did the laundry and was always putting the wrong clothes in the wrong closet.

Sean’s preference for plain black t-shirts made part of his wardrobe easy. I bought cheap t-shirts at a local craft store. But he did need at least one dress-up outfit, and that meant a task I dreaded: a shopping trip.

“You need a pair of black pants for concerts,” I announced to Sean on a September afternoon. I waved the back-to-school list in his face.

Sean was sitting at the table playing cards with his brothers and some neighbor kids. It was the last week before everyone went back to school, and they’d been getting in as many games as they could.

“You have to come to the store with me,” I said. “And try them on.”

Sean looked at me as if I’d proposed a trip to the dentist.

“You never make Devin or Bryan buy pants,” he complained, motioning to his younger brothers.

“That’s because they wear your hand-me-downs,” I said patiently.

“He can’t go,” Devin complained. “We’re winning.”

As much as I hated to break up the millionth card game of the summer, this was my only chance to finish the back-to-school shopping. I thought briefly of passing the task to my husband, but it didn’t seem fair. He was still recovering from the excruciating experience of taking our youngest son Bryan shopping to buy a present for a birthday party.

Sean didn’t talk much in the car, just spent the time clicking his Rubik’s cube.

“Let’s do this as fast as possible,” he said as we walked into the store.

I steered him towards a rack of black pants.

“Here we go,” he said cheerfully, picking up the first pair he saw.

“Try them on,” I said.

“They’re fine,” he said. “Look! Black pants. Just like the list said.”

I pushed him gently toward the dressing room. He disappeared into the first little room, and after a bit of rustling, he called out, “They’re good enough.”

“Show me,” I insisted.

He walked out of the dressing room wearing pants so wide at the waist that he could have stuffed a pillow in there and pretended to be Santa Claus.

“See?” he said grinning. “They’re fine. Let’s go.”

I made him try on five more pairs before we found ones that fit him. Apparently, most pants aren’t designed for tall, skinny teenagers.

Sean wore that pair of pants to concerts and award ceremonies, and a funeral when the neighbor kids’ grandfather died. Over Christmas, I noticed they were getting too short, and I made him come with me to buy a longer pair.

Then came Sean’s confirmation, a church ceremony that marks the transition from child to adult. It’s traditionally held in May.

“You’ll have to dress up,” I told him.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “I have the pants and shirt I wore to the January concert.”

Confirmation Day arrived. My husband put on a suit. I couldn’t find the black pants that were my usual dress-up outfit, but it was a warm day, so I put on a dress. My daughter came down in a skirt and summer top: she was the oldest and she’d been in charge of her own clothes for years.

The three boys were in the kitchen playing cards, and I kept warning them that they had to get dressed. I didn’t want to be late.

Ten minutes before we left for the ceremony, Sean went upstairs to change. As he came back down the stairs, he yelled in a cheerful tone, “Hey, Mom. These don't fit me anymore."

Even though Sean was a skinny kid, the black pants were ridiculously tight. And way too short. I could see several inches of his white socks.

Sean pulled the pants up higher and began strutting around the room. His siblings laughed.

My husband and I looked at each other in horror. Had Sean grown that much in just a few months? Well, I guess he had.

“Maybe he can wear a pair of my dress pants,” my husband said. I know he was trying to be helpful, but he was not the same size as the skinny teenager standing in the room.

I tried to think of someone who could lend me a pair of black pants. The neighbor boys were both shorter than Sean.

I gave Sean a pair of black socks to replace the glaring white ones that could be seen below the hem of his pants. If I took off my glasses, they looked okay. The bishop was a million years old, and I bet he wouldn’t notice.

“I should have made you try these on ahead of time,” I said.

Sean shrugged, "I don't care how they look." He grinned at me. “Everyone will just think I have a terrible mother.”

In the church parking lot, I whispered explanations to my parents and mother-in-law, who politely said things like, “Oh, boys do grow fast, don’t they?”

Throughout the ceremony, I winced every time the confirmation candidates had to stand up at the altar: twelve kids in nice outfits that fit them, and Sean in his ridiculously small pants. I kept telling myself that it shouldn't bother me — it's just clothes, after all — but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a terrible parent.

I was a negligent mother who hadn't bothered to check to see if her son had pants to wear to this important rite-of-passage ceremony.

“It’s not your fault,” my husband whispered. “I didn’t check either. And for that matter, Sean is old enough to be responsible for his own clothing.”

That was all true.

But it didn’t change feelings based on decades of social conditioning. I’m the mother: everything is my fault.

The ceremony was mercifully short and soon we were back in the car.

“Do you think anyone noticed your pants?” I asked fretfully.

“Yes, all the kids did,” said Sean. “They all kept saying, does your mother hate you?”

This time I was able to laugh, but still I felt relieved when we got back to the house, where we could all eat lasagna and cake, and where Sean could change back into his usual casual clothes.

As Sean stepped into the kitchen, where I was serving portions of lasagna, he handed me the pants.

“Here, I guess I’ve outgrown these,” he said grinning. As I looked at the pants, something caught my attention. That label looked familiar. I held the pants up to the window and looked closer.

These were MY black pants. No wonder they didn't fit him.

I ran up to Sean's closet, which is stuffed with games and toys and very few clothes. There, on a hanger, looking almost brand new, were his black pants. Which would have fit him perfectly.

Janine DeBaise has published in essays in numerous magazines including Orion Magazine, Southwest Review, and Prairie Schooner. Her poetry includes the book Body Language and the chapbook Of a Feather. Her academic writing focuses on environmental and feminist issues. She teaches writing and literature at SUNY ESF in Syracuse, New York.