| | A Matter of TasteA few weeks ago, I was climbing the stairs to get Andy
dressed and thinking about how nice it was now to bring Andy in to preschool
wearing clothes picked out by ME, carefully matching, mostly clean,
clothes. This is in contrast to Jack’s
preschool days when he insisted on wearing the same pair of camouflage pants
and a small rotation of shirts involving Star Wars characters, Spiderman, and
possibly Superman or Buzz. I don’t
exactly recall.
Of course, that very same day, as I cheerfully plucked a
clean shirt from his drawer, Andy looked at it and stated, “I don’t like that
shirt!” Forgetting all my training in
having lived through three other preschoolers, I began enumerating all the
benefits of this particular, basically boring shirt. After which, Andy stated a bit more
belligerently, “I don’t like that shirt!”
“But it goes so nicely with these pants!” And his eyes started to tear up as he
insisted, “But I don’t like it! I don’t
want to wear it!”
And then my brain returned, and I dug out Jack’s old Star
Wars shirt (miraculously clean!) and peace was restored. So, we dashed downstairs so we could walk out
to wave to the other kids at the bus stop.
And then, he saw it.
A crumpled Buzz Lightyear costume, hastily discarded in the
front hall the previous day.
“Mom! Mom!! I want to be Buzz!” And I dreaded the future I saw quickly
unfolding. I briefly and hopelessly try to talk him out of it, but ended up helping him climb into the costume with rips in
both knees—big rips through which legs have accidentally protruded in the
dressing process—and dirt and stains all over.
I bought it at a consignment shop for Jamie five years ago, and it has
seen lots of use.
And so, I whisked my little Buzz off to preschool. The thing is that I’ve decided long ago that
clothes don’t matter. I mean, of course,
I love when my kids are dressed beautifully, but I can’t think of any reason
why dressing according to anyone’s standards should be important. So, I let my kids go off to school wearing
whatever bizarre attire they put together.
And I regularly take a Buzz or a caped figure or an obviously Brave and
Courageous Man wearing a sword stuck in his pants to the store or library
storytime. But I had never actually seen
any other child in all my years of taking kids to preschool come to school in
costume (when it wasn’t a specially designated day). I'm pretty sure most moms aren't lenient in this matter.
Still, the next preschool day, I was prepared and had at
least washed the hole-ridden costume.
And I complacently accepted Superman the next time. To think I used to dread camouflage pants. 
Andy and I had just happened to go to the mall to meet a friend, and Andy just happened to be dressed in this attire when he saw Santa. There was no question of sitting on his lap. "Do I get to sit on his lap now? Will he be so happy to see I'm a Santa, too?" This Santa's brain apparently had addled a bit from all his sitting and smiling for the camera because he asked if Andy was a fireman. "No? But you're wearing a fireman's coat?" Isn't it obvious he's a Santa, maybe just a bit younger, with no beard? Notice the boots, several sizes too big which he deemed requisite enough to clomp around the mall in.
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