World War III with Lucie…every morning…picking out clothes. God help me if one of the four pre-approved t-shirts (tie-dye, Monsters University, Angry Birds or purple "Angel" from Italy) isn't clean and ready for her to wear. Literally--God, help me.
What the heck has happened?! She used to LOVE the adorable clothes I picked out for her! Cute pink bubble skirt with coordinating leggings and a matching headband complete with shiny silver ballet flats, yes please! I was the proudest mommy EVER when I could smugly say "Oh yes--Lucie keeps her hair bows in, no problem. The bigger the bow, the better the mommy, that's what I always say!" But that ship has sailed, folks. That ship has sailed, been hit by a nuclear torpedo and exploded into non-existence with the force and heat of a thousand suns.
I admit it. In the years before I even THOUGHT about having kids, I was slightly* obsessed with clothes. I spent just about every paycheck from Baby Gap/Cracker Barrel/Chili's on clothes, and I even stooped so low as to lock all my clothes in the trunk of my car just so Michelle couldn't wear them.
*Some of you reading this may say that this is a slight** exaggeration.
**Some of you may say this is the biggest understatement in the history of understatements.
I even kept a "clothing calendar" after college--I would write down what I wore each day so that I could look back and say, "Nope--I just wore this two weeks ago. Too soon, 3/4-sleeve hot pink shirt from Banana Republic, too soon. Back in the closet you go." Yes. I had a slight problem.
Judge me all you want…I'm paying for it now.
After having Ben, I instated a very strict "no-character, no-cheesy-tagline" rule on clothes purchased for or gifted to my handsome firstborn. Again, I'm humbly admitting this to you--I would literally cringe at the sight of onesies with cute animals saying "Somebunny Loves Me" and while yes, I wanted people to know that Ben was obviously thinking "I Heart Mommy" at all times, I refused to let it be embroidered across his chest in a crawler. (There were a few exceptions: A little romper from HHI that had "Poop Deck" written across the butt. C'mon--poop jokes trump all rules, across the board.) I was a flat-out brat, reminding family members around birthdays and Christmas of this regimen and preemptively preparing myself to return anything that broke my rule, like some crazed Fashion Führer.
Again, judge me all you want…I'm paying for it now.
As I am typing all this out, I am shakily slurping up my third cup of coffee…trying to recover from the massive meltdown that took place this morning. Little fists of fury, flailing…fiery red curly locks whipping around…the shrieks…oh dear Lord, the shrieking!! And why?? Because she wanted to wear her Angry Birds shirt and non-matching striped shorts. Again. For the third day in a row.
Call it payback. Call it karma. All of you are saying I deserve this--you are absolutely right. Now that I'm owning up to all this, I just have to find my patience. Because even though these battles make me want to tunnel my way out of her room with a freakin' spoon and crawl through five hundred yards of $@*# just to avoid it all, I just have to remind myself that I am the lucky mother of an adorable little red-headed diva…that this is all (hopefully) temporary…and at some point in the future--maybe a high school graduation party or wedding rehearsal dinner--I can show this picture. Not in the effort to embarrass her. But as a reminder to myself--that even though she's mismatched and breaking every haute couture rule I thought I would live and die by, she's still absolutely beautiful.
