It must be in her genes
There are certain fashion statements that I loathe, a few of which I’ve never mentioned while others I’ve made no small secret of here (and there and everywhere else). These trends—which make me want to splash a glass of cold water in the face of the wearer—include Crocs, Uggs, cotton jersey culotte pants, bubble skirts, and bear-claw hair clips. This is the abridged version of a much longer list which, I was reminded yesterday, includes a sweater thrown over the shoulders. Why was I reminded of this? Oh, I’m so glad you asked!
(See what I mean? Even this guy can’t make it look good.)
Yesterday, I handed Ruby her sweater as she got out of my car to go to school. Not that she needed a sweater: It’s been 80 degrees here. But I’m trying to play the responsible mother and don’t want her to be caught unprepared should we suddenly experience gusting winds and snow flurries. (She also travels with an earthquake kit in her backpack and one week’s worth of food in the form of MREs.)
The child took the sweater from me—reluctantly, practically rolling her eyes at me—and as she began to ascend the 14 concrete stairs to her daycare, she swung it around and placed it on her shoulders. I cringed as I watched from behind her but decided not to say anything. This was the first time she’d ever done this and we’d had such a lovely morning, what with her brushing her teeth upon my having to ask five times versus the usual seventeen! Who was I to start a battle over something we had years to tackle? Being the adult in the relationship, I figured I’d let this fashion no-no slide for now. I simply shuddered to myself, bit my knuckles and moped up the stairs behind her, pondering where it was that I’d gone so dreadfully wrong.
We weren’t five stairs up when Ruby lifted the sweater from her shoulders and handed it back to me without turning around. “I don’t want people to see me like this!” she said. Wha…? Did she say what I think she just said? I was so thrilled, so tickled, so enamored by my glorious child, I did a little nose-scrunch/fist pump combo. And I even considered for a brief fissure in my reality, surprising her that very night with the very pair of pink, charm-dangled Crocs which precipitated the world famous Public Meltdown of 2008.
But I’m not delusional. My princess can thrash and wail and cry on the ground outside of the Fashion Valley Footlocker all she wants: She’ll never own a pair of Crocs unless she buys them herself with money she’s earned. Instead, I help guide her into certain ensembles and then overlook her choice of black patent leather shoes in June or the mismatched Vans worn on the wrong feet. In the end, I think she’ll be just fine because the beauty really comes from the inside.*
*It’s just a whole lot more magnificent without Croc or shoulder-sweater adornment.
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