My Parents Deserve Sainthood For Surviving Me

BigMama and her wardrobe wars - I start convulsing, babbling, and rocking under the desk in a fetal position just thinking about Pinky being able to dress herself.

I started out organizing my babies' closets in sections of play clothes and dress clothes so that when they start to choose their own clothes, it will be second nature to them to pick from the appropriate category.  They will trot out to the car, smiling and excited to go to church in their matching outfits, Pinky's hairbows in her perfect pigtails matching the stripe on Zesty's tie ...

Clearly I should lower my expectations and increase my happy pills.

Ergo, this series of photos from Easter 2009.

The practice run with Jessica and Eva. 

We've never been more attractive.

"Smile for Mommy!"

"Look, smile like Daddy. See those pearly whites? SHOW 'EM."

Or just sit still ...

... or not ...

And then there was Easter 2010.  'Nuff said.

It's relatively easy for boys. Except on Easter, apparently. Pajamas, pants, shirts, socks, and shoes.  Zesty has his puppy boots, his "preachin' shoes," and tennis shoes.  The biggest dilemma we have on Sundays is which striped button down to wear with which sweater vest.  Gray, blue, black, or brown corduroys.  You know - the toddler boy uniform.

Pinky on the other hand:  we have the dressy dresses.  The play dresses.  Jean jumpers. The sweaters.  Then the dresser drawer with onesies/shirts on one side, skirts on the other. One drawer for matching diaper covers and hats, another drawer for socks, dressy socks, tights, and dressy tights.  Yet another drawer for pajamas.  And the corner hutch contains all her shoes that currently fit, with another big basket of hand-me-down shoes to grow into.

Thank the dear sweet Jesus for hand-me-downs and spoiling Mawmaws.  I think we have only purchased a few outfits for her ourselves.  She's in line for three different little girls' clothes amongst family and friends.

We used to have epic battles with Splenda every winter when we would visit her, or she'd be here for the weekend.  Her mother insisted she wear knee high socks in the winter. Splenda would sneak ankle socks to places, threw a fit about it at a Christmas party once, that sort of thing.  The issue wasn't weather or socks, it was control.

Our therapist wisely advised us once that aside from our family's religious lifestyle guidelines, to leave style up to the kids.  Even if that means Splenda is going to wear one jean skirt every day for five months straight until it literally cuts off circulation or disintegrates, and amongst all of the great Old Navy school clothes we bought her, approximately 80% of them will be worn every other NEVER.

This winter at the outset, Mr Lemon started reminding her about the knee high socks.  I just stopped him and said, "I think Splenda is old enough to decide if she is cold enough to wear knee high socks, or boots instead of tennis shoes. If she doesn't wear them, and her legs freeze, then she'll think better about it next time."  We have not had one problem with it this winter, except she takes it in context of "I don't have to wear my coat, I can wear my hoodie ... I'm old enough to decide..."

Those last words strike a weird altered minor chord in my heart, not unlike the creepy music on scary movies.

"I'm old enough to decide."

It's not like I set a great example now that I am old enough to decide to not wear gloves.  Here's hoping I can teach them to choose to live joyfully for the Lord, doing right from the wrong, respect for others, and to breathe in the moment better than I teach them to dress warm for the weather.

And to organize their closet by event-appropriate ensembles, complete with accessories and cutesy little signs that say play clothes and dress clothes.