My daughter has always been very definite about what she wants to wear. My suggestions fall on deaf ears.
My son is easier about it. Yet sometimes, he pushes back.
“You’ll need a sweater,” I say.
He grabs his green hoodie. I tell him I’m really tired of seeing him in that green hoodie. We bought it (big) for his Plankton costume two years back.
He unhappily takes the sweater I am holding out and pulls it on. I grab my camera.
“You look so handsome,” I say.
I tell him to smile.
“You aren’t smiling,” I say.
“Yes I am!”
My husband and I check out the new Marshalls. It’s obscene, the buys I find. Not so much for me as the kids.
I grew up with preppie parents. Loafers and argyle, polo ponies and buttondowns. I knew what khakis were when I was four. My dad pronounces it Kar-keys, though.
I fought the preppie when I was in my later years in high school. Wore stove pipe pants and bowling shirts.
My dad worried that I was turning bad.
I’m not a big labels person, mostly because I can’t afford The Row or Betsy Johnson or Marc Jacobs.
But I’m so excited to bring home some US Polo for my daughter, some Izod for my son. I rediscovered preppie years back. It’s in my blood. Can’t fight it.
I do find a giant bag for myself, made of woven material.
My daughter has yet to wear her polo pony dress. I might have bought it with my eyes, not hers.
Years ago, I read a Judy Blume story about a girl. She wore a turtleneck and a pair of shorts. I remember thinking: Weird. I also thought: I want to do that. My mother thought the idea was absurd.
Today I wear a pair of shorts and a turtleneck. Cool but not cold. Warm but not hot.
First time ever.
Again waiting at my daughter’s bus stop – I spy a couple of tall gangly pre teen boys. One is dressed like this and Where’s Waldo is instantly brought to mind.