Junior Fashionista

My daughter likes to dress herself. Unfortunately, her taste lies somewhere between Bob Mackie and Anna Nicole Smith. Whenever we go shopping for a new dress, I have to lay down the ground rules: ‘Limit the glitter, feathers, and sequins; Mommy is always right, and for God’s sake, keep the pink flowers to a minimum’.

My daughter always enthusiastically agrees to said rules. Her most important goal is to get me through the door; once inside the store she’ll work on changing my mind. Or so she thinks.

Shopping with children is, to put it mildly, a minefield. We like to go to Target, but even that lately has become a problem. Someone at national head quarters apparently has decided there needs to be a section for young girls with fake hair pieces, rhinestone studded crap and pink cowboy hats. I’m wondering if they’ll start selling the matching trailer soon? It screams Beauty Pageant, and just thinking about it makes my blood pressure rise.

My daughter looks longingly at it, every time we visit. Unfortunately, it’s located right behind the sales’ racks, and that’s a section I never skip. I’ve seen too many ‘accidents’ involving my daughter’s wardrobe to pay the new price for anything.

Of course, disagreements about what-to-wear don’t just happen at the store; the real arguments are had at home. She attends private school, and has to wear a uniform: navy bottom, white or blue top. These rules are sort of loose, which is both a blessing and a curse. Regardless of which shirt I pick out in the morning, she has to pick something else. I don’t know whether this is because she already made a decision the night before, or just to assert her independence. I imagine it’s the latter. Add to that the fact that we’re both cranky in the morning, and it’s understandable that we rarely make it past eight AM without one of us yelling: “Fine! Be that way!”

I understand she feels the need to choose her own outfits, and wants to change five times on Saturday just because she can. What I don’t understand is why she insists on wearing things that don’t fit. Many a times we’ve battled over pants that are too short, shoes that are too tight, and shirts that bare her midriff whenever she bends over. Maybe it’s the six-year-old’s equivalent of  “It doesn’t fit now, but once I lose five pounds, it will”.  Whatever the reason, I’ve resorted to raiding her closet when she’s away at school. She won’t notice anything missing until months later, which seriously cuts down on her separation anxiety.