My daughters love to dress up. At least the bonkers one and big girl daughter can’t get enough of it. Rebel daughter is, as always, keen to stand out from the crowd. She once went to a dressing up party in full Goth gear – eyeliner, tie with skulls on, all in black, only to find that everyone else was in princess dresses or High School the Musical outfits.One of the things they love doing is putting on my bras and stuffing them with socks. They think this is highly amusing and the whole process is accompanied by fits of giggles.
However, there is a big difference between children dressing up for fun at home and actually going out and buying stuff like padded bras that are specially made for their age group. The whole Primark debacle seems very sad to me. It takes dressing up away from the realms of fantasy and fun and moves it into something much more serious and depressing. I felt the same when bonkers daughter demanded a pair of sparkly high heeled Bratz shoes for Christmas. I don’t mind her wearing my high heels [not that I have many] for fun, but actually getting high heels specially made for small people seems to miss the point of the whole dressing up exercise. They are just playing at being adults. They don’t want to be adults. Being adults is dull [at least my daughters constantly tell me so] and fraught with the kind of complications and seriousness that they shouldn’t have to deal with yet.
I don’t want them to look like mini adults and neither do I want to look like maxi versions of them. At the moment I am lucky if I get one minute tops to get dressed anyway and my decisions are based on what is going to be comfortable and doesn’t need ironing. This often involves raiding my partner’s clothes as he keeps them very, very neat and, for some reason, I don’t. I think it’s force of habit and upbringing. His mum still turns out his socks when he stays at her house so that all he has to do is slip his feet into them. I can’t recall my mum having such a meticulously planned washing routine. In fact, I’m not sure if I ever wore socks much. She always used to complain that I went out as if every day was summer, even in mid-winter in Scotland. I still do. I call it optimism. This year that optimism has been severely challenged. I am hanging my hopes on summer.
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