>The Consignment Game

When it comes to clothing their children, some women love buying out the children’s department at Neiman Marcus. Others adore choosing expensive outfits from chi chi children’s catalogues. Fortunately for my husband, my tastes are much simpler. I’m a consignment sale fanatic.

I’m talking about those sales held twice a year in schools and churches, the ones in which moms from across the neighborhood show up to sell their children’s finest (and, admittedly, not-so-fine) hand-me-downs, trying to win back a fraction of the money they originally spent on them.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, but about 90% of what Punky and Bruiser wear came from consignment sales. I’m lucky that Punky loves dresses, because I look for those heirloom or designer duds that were worn once for a portrait or family party, and then hung back up, too “precious” to ever be worn again. I end up buying the hand-smocked dress, the Laura Ashley sweater set and the Swedish-made ensemble from a Manhattan boutique, all for $6 apiece. And Punky looks like a million dollars.

Bruiser is still of an age at which consignment racks in his size are filled with new-with-tags outfits left over from baby showers and well wishers. Because the consignment racks are always chock full of baby clothes, his outfits are even cheaper: $3 to $4 for entire sets of button-down shirts, sweater vests and soft cords.

I’ve learned to arrive early at consignment sales for the best selection- and while a seasoned consignment shopper knows that the other women around her are rarely looking for exactly the same size and style clothing, therefore there’s no need to push and shove, occasionally my fellow shoppers do get a bit catty.

Take yesterday, when I was perusing a selection of children’s books spread out on a large card table. Beneath me, a woman hunted through a few odd bookbags that had been spread out on the floor. She found one and stepped back a few feet, examining it. Her young daughter came up to her and the two began chatting. I casually stepped around her, continuing to flip through the books.

“Ummmmm, excuse me,” the woman said. “I was looking right there, before you stepped in front of me!”

I turned and smiled brightly. “Oh, dear,” I said. “I thought you were looking at that backpack in your hands and talking to your daughter.”

“But before that,” she insisted, “I was looking under that table!”

“Well, come on,” I motioned grandly. “Get back under there. Don’t let me stop you.”

A woman beside me burst out laughing and the table diver huffed away. I went back to looking and quickly forgot about the incident until I got out to the parking lot and saw the same woman getting into her car. As she pulled out of her space, I noticed her license plate.

NUTZ, it read.

Exactly.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.