With just 15 minutes left before we need to leave for the birthday celebration, the morning has been challenging. My 5-year-old, Lily, woke up grumbling about the weather, the temperature of her breakfast, and my audacity in asking her to brush her teeth. At this point, my main objective is to make it to the party without triggering any further conflicts.
“Lily, it’s time to go,” I say, attempting to maintain my composure. I know that rushing her is like tossing a match onto gasoline.
I hear her scampering toward the stairs, and I think to myself, “We might just make it.”
I catch a glimpse of her legs first—vivid crimson from the thin tights I bought at a discount store months ago, originally intended for her mariachi costume last Halloween. They’re not only out of season, but also saggy and pilled.
When she finally appears, I notice she’s paired the tights with a top. My heart sinks, knowing I must explain that she needs to wear a skirt or dress since those bright red tights are not leggings—they’re see-through.
She responds with an exaggerated eye roll and a dramatic sigh but agrees to make a change. I secretly hope she swaps those awful tights for some proper leggings or selects a dress that covers her knees.
Reemerging, she now sports a pair of black shorts—shorter than I’d prefer, meant to be worn under her sundresses during the summer. She resembles an eccentric mix between a classic Russian babushka and a 1969 basketball player.
At this moment, I’m torn.
As a child, birthday parties held great significance for me. They were opportunities to wear special outfits that conveyed a sense of importance. Growing up in the South during the mid-‘70s, there was immense focus on how little girls should appear—pretty, delicate, and charming. I often felt ashamed if my hair wasn’t styled perfectly or if my body didn’t conform to societal expectations. I have worked hard to untangle these damaging messages, and I refuse to pass them onto Lily.
Yet, as I look at her outfit, I question where the balance lies between the overly frilly dresses of the past and her unique style this morning.
Ultimately, I decide to let her wear what she wants. I convince myself that I am saving her from years of therapy by allowing her to express herself freely and creatively. Perhaps I am even shielding her from a future filled with unfulfilling jobs or misguided expectations.
Even so, I find myself holding my phone, wanting to text the birthday girl’s mother to explain Lily’s outfit choice. I imagine sending a message like, “She insisted on wearing that! Please don’t judge me for her bold fashion sense!” But I refrain. If I am truly supporting Lily, I cannot undermine that by worrying about how others perceive her outfit. This is the very shame I wish to spare her from feeling.
As we arrive at the party, I take a moment to look into her eyes and say, “Have a wonderful time. I love you.”
Lily skips away, blissfully unaware of any judgment. It strikes me that she moves through the world unencumbered—free from shame, self-consciousness, and the weight of societal expectations regarding her appearance.
This is a freedom I wish I had experienced at her age, and even now, I feel it only occasionally.
As she disappears into the party, I realize we have sidestepped a significant hurdle—my own baggage about how little girls should present themselves. By allowing her to embrace her individuality, I recognize the importance of letting her be herself, without imposing my own notions of beauty upon her.
In the end, silence seems to be the key to her freedom, and I find that an acceptable trade-off.
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In summary, allowing my daughter to choose her own clothing empowers her and fosters creativity, breaking the cycle of societal expectations and shame that I once faced. It’s a conscious decision to support her individuality and self-expression, paving the way for her to navigate the world authentically.