I am that mom. The one with the brood of small children following her through the store, dressed in tutus and cowboy boots and sunglasses at 8am. I’ve come to terms with this fact over the last few years, because honestly, this is not a battle I care to fight. I will insist they take baths, that they wear gloves outside in the snow, and that they eat something other than cinnamon toast for every meal, but what they wear is largely up to them.
That means that often, if you pop by to visit unannounced, you’ll find multiple kids without pants, or wearing dressup clothes for pajamas, or with their winter coats on in July. And I don’t care. Because it turns out, that crazy clothes stage is just that – a stage. You hear it so often as a parent, that kids grow out of “stages”, but when you are in the thick of it it can be impossible to see that this crazy thing they are doing has an end. But it does.
Ella has been much more conscious of her wardrobe lately, and while she still sometimes comes out clashing so badly that I my reflex is to wince, more and more often she comes up stairs looking like a mini adult. And I’m telling you the truth: I miss the fairy wings, layered tights, and crazy hats.