In the last year my little princess, who is all of 8 years old, has griped about the the clothing I have purchased for her. It started small — “this shirt is scratchy” or “these pants are not soft enough.”
Did you catch the part where I made the error? That I purchased … without her being with me.
I noticed the clothes not being worn, the same outfits making the rounds. The arguments every morning over “Not having anything to wear!” (Please say this in the most whiny manner possible). And then I realized, I had become my own mother. I remember my mother purchasing things for me as a kid that I hated but I was given no choice.
Enter the shopping trip this weekend. We hit Lands End — the epicenter of all things innocent. She selected one dress and one shirt — that was it. I sang the praises of various shirts, the sensibility of a pair of pants. Her brow furrowed, her gaze darted away from me. I realized I had to accept reality. My little girl was coming into her own and should wear things that reflect her personality and who she is, not who I want her to be.
I made some rules — I get final veto, nothing inappropriate, modesty first. And I let her go. Something I wish my own mother had done when I was a kid.
The realization hit home when we walked past my favorite store to shop for her, Gymboree. We stopped, I asked her if she wanted to go in. She looked at me — on a precipice. Not wanting to hurt my feelings but the reality was that she no longer identified herself with their cute and adorable outfits (sob). The look that flashed across her face gave me pause. I sighed…it was time to close the door on an era. We kept walking.
We entered the overcrowded, overrun, sensory-overloaded store Justice. The store I swore we would never enter. The store I was standing in watching my child’s eyes light up. Her hands touching the shirts, her head tilted to the side as she searched for just the right outfits. To me the store is like the “Saved by the Bell” costume designer had an affair with the 1980s and this was their love child. But to her it was heaven.
I vetoed a lot, but let a lot go. She now has more glitter, rhinestones, lace and macramé than Madonna did when she sang “Holiday” in 1983.
I washed her new wardrobe last night, along with some of the rest of the house’s clothing. When I opened the dryer, you would think a stripper lived at our house by the amount glitter that fell to the floor. I started removing her items, folding them and putting them in her basket. As I reached in to grab another I pulled out my son’s sweatshirt, covered in glitter. Then my husband’s shirt awash with sparkly little flecks. I shook their clothes out hoping to rid them of their infestation, but I couldn’t get all the sparkles off. I did, however, spread the herpes of the craft world all over the laundry room.
So if you see any of us out and notice glitter on our clothes, please realize The Hubs is not hitting the sex club, I am not moonlighting on the corner, and the 10-year-old has not all of a sudden decided to take on crafts. Nope…we just have a little girl who loves all things bling, or I should say a soon-to-be tween who loves all things sparkly.
— Alyson Herzig
Originally from New Jersey, Alyson now lives in the Midwest but has kept her sarcastic, cynical Jersey attitude. You can find her blogging about the perpetual shit storm of her life at TheShitastrophy.com. She also has more to offer the world than just humorous observations and can be found flexing her brain at LeftyPop.com where she is a weekly contributor. Alyson’s other works have been published at Mamapedia.com, WhatTheFlicka.com, InThePowderRoom.com, BonBonBreak.com. She is also working on a collection of humorous essays in hopes of proving to others they really could have it worse – they could be her.