My mother’s purse is held in high regard. It is an object of reverence, a monument to her being, and an entity of respect and reverence.
As kids, we could observe it from afar and perhaps gaze upon it with love. On a lucky day, we might have even been allowed to transport it to the car, but we were never, no matter what, ever allowed to look inside.
“That is my purse!” she would exclaim at the mere thought. Then she would set her mouth in a way that said, “And I mean it.”
Although I doubt that she ever hauled anything more risqué than a tube of fire-red lipstick, we often suspected that Medusa herself was hidden deep in the pockets of that satchel, and feared that looking in would turn us to stone.
Somewhere along the way, I went wrong with my mother’s line of thinking. My children see my purse as nothing more than a bag I carry around for their personal convenience. They see it as their own private Walgreens, their individual ATM, and in times of need, their remedy for halitosis.
What some women enjoy as a fashion statement is my ball and chain. I lug bug repellents, antibacterial ointment, ChapStick, and sewing kits. I’ve got your hand sanitizers, your nail clippers, and a stash of Band-Aids so diverse that we could dress anything from a pinprick to a gaping wound.
The duties of my purse expand 12- fold when it comes to family vacations. I am both a pack mule and a Sherpa. As many as three cameras could end up in my purse at any given time, and sometimes a mini-tripod for self-portraits. If there is any literature that “might be interesting to read,” that, too, seems to make its way in. I haul the vacation itinerary, the tour guide map, the water taxi schedule, the sunscreen, and any and all of the children’s gift shop treasures.
Then came the day when tiny bags were all the rage. Cute little darn things that hugged the body and could be concealed in the crook of one’s arm. I didn’t know how women were fitting anything into clutches the size of a postage stamp, but I desperately wondered if it could be conducive to the needs of the Clinch clan.
I gave it a stellar good go. I went through my duffle bag of a carryall, took inventory and mapped out alternative means to haul what we truly needed. If I took out the large bottle
of ibuprofen, downsized the breath mints to two choices, and stuffed my seamripper into a corner pocket, I could almost have enough room for my wallet. If I left behind my calculator, my
English to Spanish translator and a lovely assortment of safety pins, there would be room for a tube of lipstick.
I decided to carry a pen behind my ear, stuff dental floss into the cubby on the car door, and began hauling my cell phone in my back pocket. I wore my sunglasses on my head and little Charlie’s PSP [PlayStation Portable] in a fanny pack around my waist.
But the small-purse craze didn’t fare so well for the fam. In fact, you can almost imagine my children’s dismay when they landed in front of me at a sporting event to report a craving, only to discover that I had no Cheese Nips on board, much less a bottle of spring water.
Within the week, my reputation as a good mother went from being substandard to way below par. I was caught at outdoor events without bug spray. I let down a friend with swimmer’s ear and could not produce a Kleenex when a kid sneezed at church.
Turns out that I could carry a cute little purse if I wanted to, but I would need to wear cargo pants, a fisherman’s vest, and push a shopping cart to haul the family wares.
Needless to say, the tiny-purse fad didn’t stick around. It wasn’t long before women everywhere were back to the oversized shoulder bags, and all was right with the world.
Everyone, that is, except for the younger generation, who has chosen not only to stick with the small purses but to reduce them to a lanyard keychain/ billfold that they can take where e’er they go.
In fact, just last week my niece brought one along for a family outing, and my life came full circle when she handed it to my mother and said, “Here, Grandma, can you carry this in your purse?”
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.