I believe I have a good fashion sense. I have clothed all my children without someone questioning my taste. Even my own clothing has earned occasional positive reviews.
So I wasn’t prepared for my children to rebel, making shopping a grueling nightmare. I’ve had more fun at my yearly OB/GYN visits.
My thirteen-year-old son refused to wear anything but khaki cargo shorts and name-brand, dry-weave (dry what?) shirts. I found out later, dry weave means more money.
This was a harsh reminder that he’s growing up. I’m not naïve. His voice has changed and he has more leg hair than I do during winter months. Accepting his changes in clothing choice was a small bump in the road.
I moved on.
WHAM! I was blindsided when suddenly I had a front-row seat to my nine-year-old daughter’s Fashionista Debut. Miss Diva demanded her own style, turning down any suggestions from me. I was just her dutiful servant, pushing the cart and carrying her bags. I still refused to give up hope that I had some influence.
So the morning when she appeared in the outfit pictured here, I threw in the towel. There’s no going back from this.