As the clock ticks down, we have just 15 minutes before we need to leave for the birthday party. It’s been one of those mornings: my 5-year-old, Emma, woke up in a mood, grumbling about everything from the weather to her toast’s temperature, and even my audacity to suggest she brush her teeth. At this point, I’m just trying to navigate us to the party without any further conflicts.
“Okay, sweetheart, we really need to go,” I say as soothingly as possible. I know that rushing her is like throwing fuel on a fire; it’s a recipe for disaster.
I hear her scampering up the stairs, and for a moment, I feel relieved. I think we might just make it.
Then I see her legs first—bright crimson tights that we bought on clearance at Target ages ago, originally intended for her mariachi costume last Halloween. They’re saggy, pilled, and totally out of season, yet here she is, sporting them.
When she finally comes into view, I realize she’s paired those eye-catching tights with an oversized t-shirt. I sigh, knowing I’ll have to explain that she needs to wear a dress or skirt because those tights are not leggings—they’re quite see-through.
She responds with an exaggerated eye roll and a huff but agrees to change. I’m silently hoping she’ll swap those dreadful tights for some actual leggings or choose a dress that covers her backside.
Instead, she returns in a pair of black “monkey” shorts—essentially glorified bloomers we bought for her to wear under dresses during summer. Now, she resembles a quirky mix of a Russian grandmother and a 1969 basketball player.
I’m at a standstill.
As a child, birthday parties were significant events that demanded special attire. Growing up in the South during the mid-’70s, I felt immense pressure to conform to ideals about how little girls should appear—pretty, delicate, and prim. I often felt ashamed about my appearance, battling insecurities about my hair, cheeks, and figure. I’ve spent years untangling these messages in therapy, and I’m determined not to pass them on to Emma.
But now, staring at her ensemble, I’m torn about finding a balance between the frilly dresses of my childhood and her current fashion choices.
Ultimately, I decide to let her wear what she wants. I remind myself that I’m potentially saving her years of therapy by letting her express herself rather than dressing her like a doll to fit my aesthetic. I further convince myself that this supports her creativity and individuality, perhaps sparing her from a mundane career or difficult personal life later on.
Yet, as we prepare to leave, I find myself clutching my phone, tempted to text the birthday girl’s mom and explain Emma’s outfit choice. I could send something humorous like, “She insisted on wearing that! Don’t judge me for the bargain basement tights!”
But I don’t send the message. I realize that if I truly support my daughter, I shouldn’t undermine her choices to manage my own insecurities. This is precisely what I want to protect her from—the avalanche of shame tied to societal expectations and appearances.
Arriving at the party, I look into Emma’s eyes, putting aside my concerns about her outfit, and say, “Have a fantastic time. I love you.” She skips away in those ridiculous tights, embodying a sense of freedom I never had at her age—free from shame, self-doubt, and the heavy burden of conforming to anyone’s standards.
As she disappears inside, I recognize the narrow escape we’ve made from the weight of my expectations and the damaging belief that she is merely an extension of my image. By keeping my opinions to myself, I’m granting her the freedom to be herself, and honestly, it seems like a fair trade.
Summary
Allowing my daughter to choose her own outfits may lead to quirky fashion choices, but it also promotes her independence and self-expression. Despite my childhood pressures regarding appearance, I strive to give her the freedom I lacked. Ultimately, my support helps her navigate the world without the burdens of shame and societal expectations.
Keyphrase: Allowing my daughter to choose her own outfits
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