It’s called “selective shopping”
It came about when I was pregnant. Through all the foggy confusion surrounding thoughts of baby gear, baby health and baby schedules came a moment of absolute clarity when it came to: baby dressing. I turned to my dear husband, “I’ve got it. If I ONLY buy her cute clothes, she will ALWAYS look cute”. He laughed. I was only half joking.
I had seen my fair share of floral-appliqued socks, matchy-matchy hat and dress combos, and “thank heaven for little girls” onesies and I thanked heaven that I now had a full-proof way to ensure none of the above came into direct contact with Little D. We would focus on simple, cotton basics for day, overpriced pint-sized pretty dresses for night, and baby blankets that screamed “darling”, not “daddy’s little girl”. Then a thought crossed my mind – who would send the memo to all my friends, mom’s friends and mother-in-law’s friends, who felt entitled to wardrobe Little D before she had even made her first appearance? No sweat, said a good friend who already had two under her belt (babies, that is). Just keep the ugly stuff for days when you do not leave the house and no one comes over. And so we did. Little D made her public outings in fabulous style and saved the frump for the confines of home. It wasn’t always easy but when I see all the photos of her out there, it was always worth it.
And then she turned two.
And suddenly, Little D had a little opinion. On everything. And though her wardrobe is still mainly stuffed with cuteness, now when she wants to rock pink and green and grey and orange in one sitting, there are no buts about it. If she wants to sport Dora from head to toe, there are days when I give in (those are usually indoor days, though, truth be told). And if she wants to pull off black socks with pink shorts and a yellow striped tee, I may cringe a little, but fashion IS a form of self-expression, so who am I to deny? Because while I may have played ultimate stylist for the first few chapters (and did a damn good job at it, if I do say so myself), it’s Little D’s story to tell now. I am just reading along with the rest of you.