I recently read an article in a magazine that stated my 5-year-old daughter would become a happy, well-adjusted adult if I let her choose her own outfits. I wasn't totally convinced that expressing her individuality through clothes would raise her self-esteem, especially at the sacrifice of mine, but I decided to try it for a week to see if it would work.
The article said that the key for success was in the process, not the final product, so I decided to give my daughter complete freedom to choose her wardrobe, even if she ended up looking like a poster child for the Salvation Army.
On Monday, I left my daughter in her room to sift through her closet and went downstairs to make breakfast.
"Hurry!" I called up the stairs a half-hour later. "You're going to be late for school."
She appeared at the top of the stairs in my old negligee, which I had cut at the knees and given to her for play; sweat pants; patent leather tap shoes; a red plastic lei and a birthday hat. The only accessory missing was an empty beer bottle in a brown paper bag.
"I'm a fairy princess," she explained, clicking down the stairs. "Have you seen my wand?"
I gritted my teeth and handed her an English muffin as the carpool honked for her at the curb. I realized that most people wouldn't recognize my superior parenting skills or my child's high self-esteem, and I hoped no one would call the police to come check my blood alcohol level. As she clicked out the door, I assured myself she'd be OK as long as Child Protective Services didn't happen through town that day.
The next morning, I decided some maternal guidance wouldn't hinder the self-expression process, and might keep me out of jail. "Pick something you've worn outside before." I paused. "And remember, white goes with everything. Start with that and work down." I left her alone and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
"Hurry!" I called upstairs, as the carpool honked outside. "You're going to be late!"
My daughter appeared in her white angel costume from last Halloween, accessorized with tennis shoes, pink tights and a gold halo. I prayed that her kindergarten teacher was ready for my parenting skills and handed her a muffin to eat in the car.
On Wednesday morning I tried to be more specific. "Red goes with black, pink or white," I instructed. "Never mix it with yellow, orange or purple--although green will work nicely on Christmas and blue during the Fourth of July."
She left for school looking like a combination of Bozo the Clown and spin art.
The next morning I found her crying in her shoe tree.
"What's wrong, honey?" I asked, holding her in my arms.
"I don't want to dress myself anymore," she said. "The kids laugh at me."
My experiment had failed; the author of the article obviously wasn't the mother of a 5-year-old girl.
After helping her get dressed and sending her off to school, I felt sad that my daughter had lost the courage to wear what she chose. Then I had an idea. I went back into her room and created matching outfits and hung them on each hanger. Now she could still choose what she wore, without looking like a drunken angel clown in drag. I pretended nothing had changed the next morning when she went into her room to get dressed.
"Hurry!" I called up the stairs, "You're going to be late and it's my turn to drive."
I sighed with relief as she walked down the stairs in a matching shirt and pants, tennis shoes with socks, and a navy blue sweater.
"You look perfect!" I exclaimed, kissing her on the cheek. "Let's go!"
"Mommy?" She paused at the door. "You're not going to wear that, are you?"
I looked down at my red sweat pants, purple socks and summer sandals that I'd thrown on for the carpool. I just smiled and ran quickly to the car.
Readers can contact Debbie Farmer at debbie@ecis.com.
Saratoga, California Since 1975
