This week I hit a very important milestone as mother to a little girl. It was a lesson in picking my battles and knowing when to say “I just don’t care anymore, please get in the car.”
I took my daughter to the grocery store and allowed her to choose her clothes. And by “allowed her to choose” I mean she screamed so hard when I tried to remove her tu-tu, I just let her wear it.
So we embarked to Kroger with her wearing a dress, sandals, a plastic beaded necklace and a purple and pink tu-tu (hiked up to her armpits most of the time, per her insistence.)
I texted this information to my mother whose exact response was “Payback is hell.”
Apparently, I was quite the demanding fashionista as a child. I picked out my own outfits, from hair bows to shoes, starting when I was 2 years old.
My father loves to remind me of the time I insisted on a black velvet and gold lamé number when he was tasked with finding me a church dress. I equated church with 1980s prom at that age.
So here I am now, thinking I was years away from princess parties and dress-up bins. Instead, I have a toddler shuffling down the hallway in my high heels and costume jewelry, declaring “pretty!” as she reaches the mirror.
What did I get myself into?